


Keeping Sherlock

by MistressAdler



Series: Dark Love [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fisting, Anal Play, Anal Plug, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Bondage Bag, Bukkake, Choking, Come Eating, Comeplay, Dark, Dom John, Extreme snowballing, Inappropriate Use of Gardening Tools, John is very firm here, Just what Sherlock needs, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Orgy, Outdoor BDSM, Piss Play, Punishment, Rape, Rimming, Sensation Play, Sounding, Sub Sherlock Holmes, Teasing, spitting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-01-21 08:01:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 43,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12453060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressAdler/pseuds/MistressAdler
Summary: Part 2 of the Dark Love series.Now that John has trained Sherlock into the filthy, abased sub he wants him to be, they travel Europe, exploring their dynamics and tastes. Sherlock loves to be used by John and cater to his every whim, regardless how dirty, while John never tires to come up with endlessly new ways to degrade and humiliate Sherlock, giving them both what they need.Let's hope Mycroft doesn't find them to claim his brother back for himself...This is pure smut. PORN in capital letters!I'll update weekly.Sorry, discontinued!





	1. Berlin 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Heed the tags! I mean it. This is neither safe, sane nor always consensual, though they might have become risk aware by now. It will be brutal. It will be dark. The kinks will be described in graphic detail. If that is not your cup of tea, leave now. You have been warned.**  
>  Sadly, because of my experiences with the previous part, I had to disable anonymous comments. This is too much fun for me to write, and takes too much effort, to waste my time reading hate from people who don't even dare to give their names. To all the nice and lovely anonymous commenters: I truly appreciated your kind words. Say thank you to the purity brigade.  
> If you haven't read [ Training Sherlock](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8488186/chapters/19452688), let me give you a short summary: John started to train Sherlock as his sub, secretly instigated by Mycroft. When Sherlock is ready, John and Mycroft take him to the Holmes family manor to have some fun. Only, Mycroft plans to whore his brother out to some political allies, a thing John won't tolerate. He and Sherlock eventually escape Mycroft and England, and meet again in Amsterdam, where they take the identities of Ormond Sacker (John) and Sven Sigerson (Sherlock) to hide from Sherlock's all-knowing brother. But will they be able get rid of Mycroft once and for all?

“Now you’ll have to wait for me.” John fastens the last metal ring of the cock cage around Sherlock's semi-erect shaft and puts the key in his pocket, smiling deviously.

“Well, I don't really have a choice, do I?” Sherlock sighs against John's temple.

“Ah, but you are a very talented lock pick, at least so I’ve been told.” John smiles. “Or do you want me to release you?” 

“No.” Sherlock smirks. “Remember, this was my idea. I want to be constantly reminded whom I belong to.” He absent-mindedly touches the lesion at the small of his back and frowns. “It’s only you now.”

“Careful. This will need some time to heal.” John takes Sherlock's hand and presses a kiss to his palm to hide how overwhelmed he is by Sherlock's admission.

“I'll be thinking about you every day. My cock rendered useless, any attempt at release futile. It'll be torture. I can see its appeal. For both of us.” Sherlock mumbles, kissing down John's neck until he pulls away. “We shouldn't contact each other if it's not absolutely necessary. It should look like as if we met by chance.” 

He plays with the top button of John's shirt, his long index finger circling the small nub.

“I have to dash, Sherlock, if I want to catch my train.” John smiles ruefully as the naked man in front of him lies back on the bed and stretches out on rumpled sheets. His pale skin is glowing in the gloomy afternoon light, the silver cock cage heavy between his lean thighs, nicely matching the glittering rings piercing his nipples.

“Are you sure you don't want something else?” Sherlock whispers, looking up at John from beneath heavy eyelids while his right hand trails down his chest and comes to rest on his stomach just above his groin. John can feel his cock swelling in his jeans.

“Just let me suck you off one last time... for good.” Sherlock pleads, his fingers dipping even lower.

“You are insatiable, a true cock-slut. You seem to exist on come alone.” But John doesn't sound too put-out as he quickly unbuckles his trousers. His cock is already half-hard just from locking Sherlock in. As he's in a hurry, he just pushes his jeans far enough down to free his erection.

He keeps standing next to the bed as Sherlock slides forward, greedily opening his enticing mouth while lying on his back. His head dangles off the side of the mattress until John grabs a fistful of curls and positions him the way he wants.

Sherlock relaxes his throat and John slides all the way in. He loves everything about John's cock, from its taste to its girth and weight on his tongue, how it stretches his lips and fills his mouth. He could suck him all day.

They should definitely do that when they meet again.

John watches his bulbous cock move beneath the thin sheath of tissue and muscles that forms Sherlock's long, white throat while he fucks that willing mouth. Sherlock makes the most delicious noises, moaning around the hot flesh, the sounds vibrating through the tender nerve endings in John's shaft, going straight to his balls already preparing a huge load of come to flood Sherlock's body with.

By now, Sherlock is drooling heavily, unable to stop it, just the way John likes it. His face will soon be glistening with spit. Sherlock renders control to John, who wonders how far they are both prepared to go.

His balls are pressed against the ridge of Sherlock's nose as he pushes as far into his wet mouth as possible. John doesn't show any consideration as he ruthlessly thrusts in and out, deeper and deeper. But the man beneath him shows no signs of resistance either as he offers his body and its orifices to be used. John watches as a crimson flush creeps down the milky expanse of his lovers chest and is sure that Sherlock loves what they are doing at least as much as he does.

“Play with your nipple rings. Show me how much you want my cock.” John's voice is firm despite his evident arousal. Sherlock's hands fly to his chest as he desperately tries to suck John in even deeper.

John groans as Sherlock's lips close around the root of his cock, his teeth pressed against his pubic bone. His slender fingers are busy plucking his silver nipple rings, toying with them blindly, transforming his usually dusky pink areola into hard dark studs.

“I bet you are dying to come.” John's smile is almost cruel. Sherlock makes a consenting sound around his cock that has John twitch in his mouth. “Well, tough luck, slut. Not for a while, I'm afraid.”

Sherlock grunts again, this time in frustration. Clear precome is leaking from the slit in the metal covering his trapped cock. His testicles look painfully swollen and almost purple but there's no chance for release or for his shaft to escape its confinement. It must be agonising, John thinks, sliding in and out of Sherlock's wet, docile mouth. It feels delicious.

John keeps his rhythm for a while, watching Sherlock splutter and choke, in turns flicking his hard nipples or pulling on the piercings. But it isn't enough, Sherlock's just teasing himself. After a few minutes, John swats his hands away and takes over.

He pulls on each ring simultaneously until Sherlock's nipples are elongated and stretched almost past endurance. In response, Sherlock makes desperate keening noises at the back of his throat, probably begging John to stop, but John doesn't care.

“Shut up and take it.” He hisses, but Sherlock continues to writhe on the bed and whines, his idle hands grabbing the sheets until he can't endure the pain any longer. He cups John's hands in a frantic gesture to make him stop, gagging and coughing so John looses his pace. Bubbles of spit well up in the corners of Sherlock's mouth. John slips free, thick beads of gooey saliva covering his cock and dripping from Sherlock's mouth, smearing the mess all over his face.

That's when John has enough. 

“Fuck, Sherlock, do I have to teach you how to suck cock properly?”

“Sorry, John, I'm so sorry...” Sherlock's voice is rough with shame. “I'll be good, please, so good...”

After one last fierce tug that has Sherlock arching off the bed and yelling in pain, John releases his tormented nipples. With a relieved sigh, Sherlock sinks back down onto the mattress and obediently opens his mouth again. His face is covered in a mixture of spit, snot and tears. 

John is tempted to leave him like this and think about his shortcomings but then his hard cock jerks and reminds him that he wants to add his come to the sticky wet mess. But he won't go gentle any longer. Sherlock will suffer for his inadequacy. 

“I'll treat you like the stupid cunt you are.” John growls as he tears his belt from the loops of his trousers still sitting mid-thigh. He quickly slides the smooth leather around Sherlock's throat and pulls it tight. Sherlock doesn't bat an eyelid, doesn't move or make a sound. His mouth stays open as he stares up at John, surrendering, accepting his punishment.

When John pushes into him again he can actually feel his cock throb inside Sherlock's restricted throat as the man beneath him fights for air. But John doesn't loosen the belt. In fact, he draws it tighter.

“Suck. The harder you suck, the faster I'll come and you'll be allowed to breathe.”

Sherlock instinctively tries to swallow John deeper, but the lack of oxygen combined with his position makes it almost impossible. What John can see of his face first whitens, then darkens, turning a shade of violet that slowly fades to blue. Sherlock's finger start to pluck at the sheets in silent desperation. The muscles in his outstretched legs contract and spasm, making his body twitch and jerk. Yet John doesn't relent.

Accompanied by chocking noises, in vain struggling for oxygen, Sherlock's tongue starts swelling while his throat begins to clench around John's cock. John knows he's about to pass out but he wants to prolong the exquisite experience just a little longer. Only when the helpless sounds Sherlock makes fall silent and his body goes slack does he eventually pull out and comes all over Sherlock's face and chest while the man in front of him coughs and pants, returning from the edge of unconsciousness.

“Thank... thank you.” Sherlock croaks. Tears are running down his temples, leaving salty traces in the slush covering his face, but when he's got his breath back he grins wickedly, licking come from his lips.

Despite still being a little shaky from his orgasm, John takes his phone out with trembling fingers and snaps one last picture of Sherlock, dishevelled, covered in come, slightly off kilter, his hair a mess, his eyes red, still a visible mark on his throat where John had tightened his belt.

Sherlock's longing, come-covered face will serve him as wanking material over the next weeks of separation.

...

John Watson had to vanish for Ormond Sacker to take the stage. Knowing about Sherlock’s brother what he did, it was obvious to John that they would have to be very clever to fool Mycroft. Therefore, he took to his task with seriousness as well as military precision. After leaving Sherlock in Amsterdam, he spent two weeks establishing his new persona, travelling by train and plane to various European cities. In Zurich, he opened a bank account. In Lisbon, he rented a cheap flat near Martim Moniz. In Rome, he bought a smart phone and several SIM cards. In Prague, he acquired a laptop.

Meanwhile, Sherlock made his way by bus to Berlin. He paid cash, and due to the Schengen agreement passport controls between Germany and the Netherlands were non-existent. Sven Sigerson from Norway crossed the border unnoticed.

Upon his arrival in the German capital, Sherlock quickly made friends with a group of three girls he met in a cafe in Prenzlauer Berg. They instantly took to the shy, slightly geeky guy with the funny Norwegian accent who seemed nice, a little naïve – and utterly lost. They were all sharing a large flat in Kreuzberg, and it didn't take Sherlock much persuasion to get himself invited over to their place for as long as it took him to find something permanent. He told them that he had graduated last summer and was now on some sort of gap year, trying to find himself while travelling. They nodded in understanding, listening with serious faces, and agreed that this was a very mindful idea before ordering another round of Chai tea with honey.

Sherlock – or Sven by now – slept on their couch for a few days, during which he established an online history for himself as well as for Ormond Sacker: Facebook, Instagram, Email accounts and so on, using the shared Wi-Fi registered under the name of the main lessee, the father of one of the girls. After three days, it looked convincingly as if Sven Sigerson and Ormond Sacker had existed for as long as their alleged age made it credible.

By the end of the week, a friend of a friend of Alex - one of the girls Sherlock shared with - was looking for someone to rent her apartment while she went away on a student exchange to Singapore for three months. It was quickly agreed that Sven would be the right person. He paid for the duration in advance and, just like that, became the subtenant of a two bedroom flat in Friedrichshain.

Thus established, without leaving any trace of his presence in any official record, Sherlock impatiently waited for his reunion with John. The heavy chastity device between his legs reminded him constantly of what he was missing.

In his desperation, he had tried humping his pillow but - of course - to no avail. He’d just felt chafed afterwards. The only thing that brought him some relieve was milking his balls, which he did by fingering himself until he found the bundle of nerves inside his rectum. As he rubbed his prostate for hours, clear fluid started to leak out of his trapped cock, which he gathered in a jug. Imagining John’s voice in his head ordering him to drink it, he obeyed, slowly slurping up his own thin ejaculate with a straw. He wished John could watch him. But that was impossible right now. All Sherlock was able to do was to film himself on his phone to show John later. He had to admit that he looked deliciously debauched, sipping his own come as if it was some exotic cocktail. Perhaps he should add a cherry...

….......

John arrives in Berlin at the new, slightly futuristic main train station on a Wednesday evening. He only had sporadic contact with Sherlock over the past two weeks, mostly short SMS, send from a burner phone. But a few days back, he had written Sherlock an old-fashioned letter that contained rather specific requests for his preparation. He's curious if Sherlock had been able to meet them.

Their last exchange has provided John with an address of a bar in Mitte. It's a rather posh place – of course, Sherlock picked it – all chrome and glass and polished wood. It's too brightly lit for John's liking but then he doesn't intend to stay long.

Sherlock is sitting at the bar, reading The Guardian, a glass of white wine next to his elbow. Upon setting eyes on him, John feels as if struck by lightning. A sharp bolt of arousal shoots through his body as he takes his lover in: blue jeans, a tight white t-shirt, Converse. His hair is cut very short and dyed blond (John, on the other hand, has grown a reddish beard to match his passport photograph). Sherlock looks so young, just about twenty, willowy thin yet sinewy, the muscles on his lean bare arms clearly showing. When he shifts a little on his high bar stool, John grins.

Sherlock is an accomplished actor. He doesn't give any sign of recognition as John tries to order a glass of Pinot Noir in very poor German, his accent so thick that the bar tender doesn't understand him.

Luckily, there's this guy at the bar, fluent in both English and German, who, after putting his newspaper down, helps John translate his order. They strike up a conversation, Sherlock recommending the Pinot Gris he's drinking. Soon, they are discussing wine before moving on to other topics: the weather, the pound, Brexit... 

This is actually fun, a date, something they never had.

When John asks if Sherlock has a girl friend, the answer he gets is “Not really my area” and a very pointed look. John's smile broadens. 

Sherlock's eyes are dark and hooded by then, his cheeks flushed. John can see his pulse throbbing in his throat. Enough is enough, he decides after fifteen minutes, and suggests they change location to get a bite to eat. Does Sven have any suggestions...

A totally harmless, unsuspicious meeting – two ex-pats bonding over being strangers in a foreign country. When they leave the bar, no one spares the bearded Englishman and the young blond Norwegian a second thought.

They don't take a cab but catch a train to Friedrichshain. The flat is located near Boxhagener Platz. During their journey, they chat about nothing in particular. Sherlock points out the odd sight but seems to grow more and more restless, fidgeting in his seat. John can't suppress a smirk as Sherlock crosses and uncrosses his legs while a light flush creeps down his throat.

The apartment is on the fourth floor in a 19th century rear-building reached after passing through two courtyards. The floor is made of gleaming wood and the rooms are almost sixteen feet high, with white stucco decorating the ceilings. It's a bit like residing in a small palace. The sparse furniture is made of light wood – beech and pine – giving the flat a cool, Scandinavian touch. How very fitting for a man named Sven Sigerson.

Not that both men have an eye for the interior after they stepped over the threshold and Sherlock closed the door behind them.

John immediately pins him to the hard wood, fiercely, urgent, kissing him viciously. His coarse beard scrapes over Sherlock's delicate face as he opens his mouth even wider to give John access.

“Did you prepare yourself as I told you?” John groans between kisses, holding Sherlock's wrists with his left hand above his head in a death-grip.

“Yes, John.” Sherlock breathes, his head dropping back against the door, going pliant under John's onslaught.

“God, I've missed you.” John squeezes Sherlock's groin through his jeans with his free hand. Discovering that Sherlock isn't wearing any pants, John can feel his semi-erect cock, swollen and hardening despite the chastity device John had put on him two weeks ago back in Amsterdam.

Sherlock hadn't been able to get off for the whole two weeks of their separation. By now, he must be gagging for it.

“Good boy.” John says, releasing his grip to Sherlock's arms. 

“Please...” Sherlock gasps, without knowing what exactly he's asking for. It's just... his knees feel like jelly and he has trouble to stay upright without John holding him. He slumps forward, resting his brow on John's shoulder, fumbling to push his jacket down and off.

“Please, John, it's been so long. I've been so good, please...” Sherlock is outright begging, sounding as needy as he feels.

John pulls Sherlock's head up by his short hair. He suddenly misses those lush, mussed curls. “What do you want?” He growls against Sherlock's pink lips, wet and already a little puffed from John's stubble.

“I want you to deal with me as you see fit.” Sherlock whispers, staring directly into John's cobalt blue eyes. “Do anything you want with me.”

John grins wolfishly.

“I want to see how wet you are for me.” John just strokes his fingertips over Sherlock's fly once, twice, up and down, feeling the cool, hard metal beneath the denim.

Sherlock swallows, his eyes fluttering shut at the touch where he needs it. Badly. But it's just a tease, not enough. He forces his eyes open and glances down again, watching John caress him.

As the first spurt of hot piss darkens the light-blue fabric between Sherlock's legs, John lets out a soft moan and cups him harder. Sherlock relaxes a little more, pushes into the touch and lets it flow. He knows what John likes, so he drank three bottles of water over the whole day and numerous mugs of tea, never relieving himself. His bladder is full to bursting and finally letting go feels so good he sighs with pleasure.

His piss soaks his groin, his trousers, runs down his legs and into his shoes, eventually pooling around his feet. John massages him gently, his hand getting drenched as Sherlock empties his bladder, but he doesn't seem to care. Sherlock bites his lip, watching his piss wet John's fingers before dripping down onto the floor between them.

John strokes and squeezes him for some minutes until he's empty. “Finished?” He asks, his voice rough. Sherlock can see how turned on John is by his mishap, how much he likes to see Sherlock like this – humiliated, degraded, filthy, yet horny as hell.

“Yes.” Sherlock says, looking up at John from under his lashes, smiling shyly. “I made quite a mess.” 

“You did indeed.” John brushes his wet hand through Sherlock's hair to dry it a little, then offers each finger for Sherlock to suck. Tasting his own salty piss on John's skin makes his heart beat even faster and he moans wantonly. In his need, he even cups his damp groin and palms himself. He knows it's no use but he's desperate for some friction. John let's him, watching him with a mixture of pity and disdain.

“You're filthy.” He says eventually. “Drop your trousers.”

Sherlock quickly undoes his belt and toes his shoes off, setting his stockinged feet into the cooling puddle of piss on the floor. As his jeans slide down they get thoroughly drenched as well. Sherlock steps out of the pile of wet fabric, now just in socks, a tight with t-shirt and the silver cock cage he's been forced to wear for two weeks.

John takes his trapped cock in hand and weighs it. It's heavy, not just because of its metal sheathing. His bollocks are round and full and when John squeezes them a little, Sherlock makes a beautiful needy yet pained sound. He must be aching.

“On your knees.” John orders, and Sherlock sinks gracefully to the floor, grateful for not having to stand on his trembling legs any longer.

“Clean that up.” But when Sherlock balls his jeans into some kind of makeshift floor cloth, John takes a step forward, grinding the heel of his shoe into the delicate bones of the back of Sherlock's left hand. “With your mouth.”

Sherlock groans in pain but pushes the damp jeans aside and sets each of his hand into the yellow puddle for leverage. Then he lowers his face, opens his mouth, and starts to slurp his own urine from the floorboards.

“Just with your mouth. Hands on your back.” John orders.

Sherlock obliges, one side of his face resting in his piss, his fair hair already darkening with dampness. He crosses his hands at the small of his back and John secures them there with his belt.

Sherlock shuffles forward on his knees, his open mouth greedily sweeping the floor, sipping up his piss as best he can, his naked arse in the air. John gets a lovely view of his hole and now his heart starts to beat a little faster as he becomes aware of the rather large black tunnel plug spreading Sherlock open. He got an even bigger one than John had envisaged. His half-hard cock, forced into the stainless steel chastity device, swings between his legs, looking enticing.

“So you found what I wanted you to get. Wow, this looks huge. Must have been fun pushing that up your slutty hole.” John admires Sherlock's dedication. It would have taken him a while to get used to such a massive toy. Sherlock is still tight like the virgin he was until a few months back, and two weeks of forced abstinence surely have done nothing to help prepare his body for such a gigantic intrusion. John simply has to reach out and brush his fingers over the broad rubber rim protruding form Sherlock's arse hole.

The sounds Sherlock makes are outright obscene as he laps and slurps, drinks down and swallows and swallows, grunting, gurgling, until the floor is finally almost dry and clean. His face and hair are wet with piss when he's finished, dripping onto his t-shirt as John pulls him up on his knees by his short blond spikes. 

“I missed this.” John tells him. “My beautiful piss slut.”

Sherlock licks his lips and smiles up at him, bathing in John's admiration. It's easy to accept affection like this, on his knees.

“Now, lets play a little with your new toy, shall we?” John stares at Sherlock for a moment before he hurls him onto his feet and drags him towards the living room at the end of the hallway. Sherlock skitters over the polished floor in his piss-soaked socks as he hurries to follow, unable to balance his weight with his arms, utterly helpless and entirely at John's mercy.


	2. Berlin 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John uses Sherlock as he pleases, filling his hole with piss before fisting him hard. Sherlock, as the sloppy pisswhore he is, makes quite a mess...

John forces Sherlock onto his knees on a soft white rug in the middle of the large living room, pressing his face into the fluffy carpet. Sherlock goes down willingly, his arse once again raised in the air, exposed, open. The silver chastity device gleams between his legs. God, he needs to be touched so badly!

But John takes his time, admiring Sherlock’s extremely stretched hole instead of ravishing him here and now. The black rubber spreads him wide open, exposing his light pink insides. As his rim tries to flutter in excitement under John's scrutiny, the rubber device doesn’t give. It's so frustrating that Sherlock almost sobs in deprivation.

“Gorgeous.” John's finally reaching out and caresses the taut muscle with his index and middle finger, rubbing the slippery, stretched sphincter. Sherlock had to use a lot of lube that is now oozing out of his hole. As the hollow plug prevents him from clenching, he’s literally dripping slick onto the carpet like a horny slut would from her wet cunt. His caged cock joins in as a clear bead on precome drizzles from its metal confinement.

“God, look at you. Shamelessly horny.” John sighs. Sherlock presses his arse against those probing fingers and John lets him savour the contact for a moment before withdrawing them. “So needy.” He chuckles and Sherlock moans lowly into the rug, canting his hips upwards, rutting a bit more until John stills him with a sharp slap to one of his arse cheeks.

“Are you in the mood for more piss?”

“Yes, please, Oh god, John, please…” Sherlock mumbles into the carpet. However, he senses that John wants to hear more, and by now he knows what is expected from him. “Please, use me, use my hole. Fill me up with your hot piss, John.”

“Don’t you want to taste it?” John asks in return as he fumbles with his fly, a dark smile in his tone. It's a rhetorical question. 

“Use my arse first. Drinking your piss will be my reward if I’m a good piss slut tonight.” Sherlock moans with his hot face pressed into the rug, already breathless with anticipation.

John's cock is by now almost too hard to deliver; he'd be lying if he'd said he isn't extremely turned on by their reunion. He has to concentrate and pinch his root, forcing himself to relax.

“Come on, take it then.”

Sherlock tries to keep very still when he feels John's warm piss hit his entrance, streaming inside his gaping hole. It must have been somewhat urgent, because it's a lot, quickly filling him up. The tepid liquid sloshes and gurgles in his guts before spilling over, running down the back of his legs, soaking the carpet beneath him. They'll have to buy a new rug, he muses, before every coherent thought leaves him. 

As John watches Sherlock overflowing, he directs his stream all over his buttocks, his bound wrists and the small of his back, lathering him generously in pale yellow urine that drips down over pink skin and the silver cock cage between trembling legs. When he's finished, he orders Sherlock to stay down, his piss rippling inside that vulnerable hole. Sherlock is filled to the rim. It's beautiful and decadent.

“God, look at you. My own piss bucket.” John tenderly strokes Sherlock's glistening arse cheeks and wet upper thighs with his fingertips.

“Yes.” Sherlock huffs, blissed out yet still so very needy. His trapped cock truly hurts by now. His bollocks feel like they might explode, especially when John starts to squeeze them, rolling his sac in his damp palm.

“John, please, oh god, John, I can't...” Sherlock is gasping, begging, aching with need.

“Don't move!” John hisses. “If you spill piss on me I make sure you'll regret it.”

Sherlock groans. He knows that John means it. But he still has to ask. “John, it... it hurts, please... I need to... I need to come... please?” His voice fades into a destitute whimper.

“Patience, Sherlock.” But John's voice is betraying him, giving away how affected he is. No wonder, regarding the sight in front of him.

Clear fluid is continuously leaking from Sherlock's tortured cock, forming a gooey bead connecting with the wet rug beneath him. His balls are already drawn tight against his perineum, small and hard. John pinches them and Sherlock gasps, his muscles knotting in a desperate effort to keep still and not to jerk away from the pain and expel some piss.

John tweaks him again, harder this time, and Sherlock makes a pained, keening noise betraying his suffering, but otherwise stays in position. The piss filling his bowels is rapidly cooling but he doesn't dare to emit it; because John would punish him for it. Ruthlessly. And he's not sure he can take that right now.

As Sherlock's crouched down onto the floor, his tight white t-shirt has ridden up his body, exposing fresh, pink scar tissue at the small of his back just above his sacrum. It still looks raw and tender, and John only ghosts his fingertips over the marred skin where he cut Mycroft's claim to his brother from his body two weeks ago in Amsterdam.

He wants this shadow gone from their lives forever. They are together now, that's all that matters. Sherlock will heal. 

“My beautiful boy.” John whispers, resolutely shoving any thought of Mycroft aside before delivering another firm smack to Sherlock's left arse cheek that sets what little flesh gathered there jiggling. There's not enough fat or tissue to wobble properly, but nevertheless, with a sudden wince, Sherlock twitches. Cold piss starts to dribble from his stretched hole.

“Sorry, so sorry, John...” Sherlock mumbles, and desperately tries to calm himself, to clench, to stop leaking. But to no avail.

“You filthy bugger.” Sherlock can hear John getting up, removing his soiled trousers. He closes his eyes in anticipation of his punishment.

But instead of delivering the sort of thrashing Sherlock has expected, John walks over into the kitchen and drinks a glass of water before he returns to the living room, taking off all his remaining clothes until he's stark naked. As Sherlock cranes his neck, he can see John's thick hard cock bobbing proudly in front of his taut stomach.

When he kneels down again behind Sherlock, time seems to stop. There's an odd, squeaking sound, before what feels like four fingers are pushed deep inside Sherlock's stretched arse without warning, all at once. More cold piss starts to ooze out, running down the back of Sherlock's legs where gooseflesh is forming in its wake. The thick rubber wall of the plug makes it impossible for Sherlock to feel much of John's touch, but he still senses that something is odd. 

“John, what...” He huffs out as he tries to twist his head to see what's happening. John's arm looks weird, and it takes Sherlock a moment to notice that he must have pulled on the violet household gloves that usually lie next to the kitchen sink.

John moves insistent and fast, and it doesn't take long before his thumb joins his fingers. Sherlock's head falls back onto the floor, hitting the carpet hard as he tries to relax even more to let John in. Lube would help but John doesn't seem in the mood to get it. Sherlock has no choice but to stays down and take it. Only when John's knuckles slide into him, the widest part of his hand brutally breaching Sherlock, opening him up almost past endurance, does John suddenly still.

“How does it feel, Sherlock, after all those days without me?” John asks, his other hand engaged with lazily pulling and fisting his own cock.

“Massive. Like being ripped in half.” Sherlock pants. “I missed you. I missed this.” He holds very still and concentrates on his breathing.

“You are making quite a mess down here, you dirty pisswhore.” John tells him, his voice dangerously low. “Look at you, all wet and drenched in smelly piss. You love that, don't you, getting peed on and then fisted hard?”

“I do, John, with you.” Sherlock sighs, because it's true. He loves being forced down onto a floor drenched in piss while urine leaks from his hole, the taste of his own piss still lingering on his tongue, a hand forcefully pushing into him, touching him in places that are not used to being touched; loves being degraded, humiliated, used in unspeakable ways. “Please, give me more.” He's almost delirious with want by now. He'd ask for anything he thinks John would like to hear. He'll beg, he'll crawl, he'll abase himself in any which way imaginable. His cock throbs despite its cage and Sherlock can feel his eyelids flutter shut as his abdominal muscles clench and unclench in desperation.

“You want more? I'll give you more. Get up.” John lets go of his cock and grabs Sherlock's shoulder to pull him back and upright. Sherlock sways slightly on his knees because he can't use his arms to gain his balance. The rest of John's piss gushes out of him, running down the insides of his thighs. It's a disconcerting feeling. He had feared the whole day to have some sort of accident. The plug is hollow, opening him up completely. He has no control over his bowels or sphincter once its inserted. Just like John wants it. It's utterly ignominious yet turns them both on immensely. 

It's what Sherlock needs to let go; to give in to his darkest desires. To surrender, body and mind.

Sherlock is kneeling in front of John now, almost like a puppet, stuffed by his gloved hand. John's other hand has dropped to his waist, steadying him, while John's erection presses hot and heavy against Sherlock's damp arse cheek. John's cock is gorgeous, thick-veined, large and swollen, the tip shining wet, and Sherlock desperately wants to taste it. He can smell John, all tangy musk and pungent heat above the sharp odour of fresh piss. It's mouthwatering. Sherlock pants, helplessly, oblivious, then slouches forward a bit, even parting his lips as he imagines lapping at John's leaking slit.

“You really think I'll let a dirty slag like you suck my cock?” John grins against Sherlock sweaty nape as he twists his hand a little inside that sensitive hole.

“Fuck!” Sherlock whimpers. “No, John. Just... a bit, please. Just the crown?” He sounds so needy, it's embarrassing. “Just let me tongue your slit for a bit. Clean it up. Worship it with my mouth.”

John bites down on the tendons standing out from Sherlock's long neck. “Well, maybe later. For now, I want to have some fun with you.” John's answer nearly shatters Sherlock. He feels his whole body undulate in disappointment.

John's free hand moves to the middle of Sherlock's chest to hold him in position while his wrist rotates inside Sherlock's opening again and again. He doesn't push in any deeper, but neither does he pull out. The stretch is agonising, as are the movements, continuously widening Sherlock at the most vulnerable part of his body, reducing him to a sobbing mess. All the while, John ruts against his backside, not hard enough to get off but only to tease Sherlock and remind him of what he's missing.

Eventually, however, the awkward angle takes its toll. John's arm and shoulder start to hurt. He carefully pulls out, but makes sure that the plug stays inside Sherlock's hole. His arse feels positively wrecked by now. Sherlock swoons, almost collapsing onto the floor.

But John doesn't show mercy. “Stay up.” He says firmly, grabbing Sherlock's short hair. “I thought you wanted to make me happy, Sherlock.”

Sherlock can only groan in response. John grins as he manoeuvrers around to stand in front of his exhausted lover. His cock is suddenly only inches away from Sherlock's willing mouth. It looks just as Sherlock has imagined it, hard, wet, plump and glistening, the foreskin retracted, the slit a little open and red, jerking visibly in front of Sherlock's face.

“Please...” He sighs, shuffling a little forward on his knees until John's shiny cockhead is almost touching his lips. If he'd dared to dart out his tongue he'd be able to lick it.

“I told you, not yet. “John admonishes him, pulling off the soiled kitchen gloves. “Offer me something else, Sherlock. An incentive. Something special. I can get a blow job anywhere. What I want from you is to watch you debase yourself for me.”

Sherlock swallows, tugging at the belt that ties his wrists behind his back. He needs to concentrate to string a coherent sentence together because words seem to fail him as all his blood is gathered in his throbbing, locked-up groin. “Perhaps you'd... like to... spit on my face?” He suggest in a low voice, raising his head, his eyes wide open, his jaw slack. “Please, spit on my face.”

To his utter enjoyment, this seems to be exactly what John wants. “Your wish is my command.” He grins, taking his cock in hand and fiercely pumping it while opening his mouth to let saliva drip from his lips onto Sherlock's upturned face.

A thick bead lands right on Sherlock's lips. He licks it up and swallows. Another blob hits his cheekbone, running down the sharp ridge over his jaw. The next dollop gathers just below Sherlock's open left eye, but he doesn't blink.

“Lovely.” John says, and Sherlock shivers in a mixture of revulsion and arousal. “More?”

“Yes. Please.” Sherlock whispers.

“Come here.” John pulls him by the hair as he aims for his face again and again, spraying saliva all over those beautiful features until they are covered in a glistening sheen. All the while, John is fisting his cock right in front of Sherlock, just of reach of his eager mouth.

Until he stills, his fingers releasing Sherlock to trace his cheekbone, his chin, his eyebrows, spreading the mess further. Sherlock's long lashes stick together as he slowly blinks, his pupils blown wide. When John rubs his cock through the moisture, over wet cheeks and lips, Sherlock's eyes roll back in their sockets.

“God, the things you let me do to you.” John wonders, his voice sweet and tender and almost as needy as Sherlock feels himself.

“On your back.” John instructs suddenly in the same tone. His left hand is now only holding his shaft, but he's rock hard in his loose fist. Sherlock's own cock is still dripping precome onto the carpet; he's so turned on he might pass out.

John has to help him lie down. His arms hurt, trapped uncomfortably beneath him, but it can't be helped. His caged cock rests against his quivering abdomen, the clear fluid leaking from it quickly forming a gooey puddle around his navel.

Sherlock wants it so badly by now that he spreads his legs like a needy whore and offers his stretched hole to John, moaning “Please... please... I need you. Fill me with your cock.” His head lolls on his neck as his whole body convulses in front of John.

“I'm going to fuck you now, Sherlock, with this huge plug you put inside yourself.”

John kneels between his spread legs as his free hand drags down Sherlock's body, over wet cotton and skin damp with piss, sweat and saliva. Sherlock's hips jerk upwards to meet him, but John just swats the inside of Sherlock's trembling thigh as his hand descends between those lovely pale cheeks and touches the base of the plug. He turns it left and right and Sherlock moans unabashed, nearly gone with lust.

When John pulls a little, the stiff rubber glides almost fully out of Sherlock's hole. It makes a sloppy, wet noise and John grunts, pushing the toy back inside. Sherlock gasps in shock and arousal. It's so big! He'd never thought he'd be able to manage such a large toy. It had taken him quite some time to put it up his arse in the morning. He's not sure he can endure being violated like that much longer. But he will if that's what John wants.

John grins down at him wickedly, aware of Sherlock's discomfort, savouring it, the abasement Sherlock is willing to take for him. Eventually, he speeds up, pushing and pulling faster and faster as his other hand grips his own cock harder. Sherlock is by now reduced to grunting needy pleas for more, harder, deeper, whining like a dirty pig to get his arse fucked. John has to be careful not to fully pull out. He won't allow for Sherlock's agony to lessen or his for his hole to clench. His pet is just there to get stuffed and take it.

“You're so open, so wet. It's like screwing a cunt.” John tells him as his hand blurs on his cock. Forcefully, he pushes in, deep, so deep – and keeps it there, the base rubbing painfully hard against Sherlock's sore rim and perineum. He can feel his prostate being stimulated by it from the outside, and the pressure is so delicious that Sherlock's hips jerk and stutter in a fruitless attempt to climax. A sharp, frustrated whimper is drawn from him. He needs to come, his bollocks ache and tingle, but it's impossible and that nearly drives him mad.

Meanwhile, John leans up and over, clambering onto Sherlock's trembling body, straddling his waist. It only takes a few fast strokes and he shoots his load onto Sherlock's heaving chest, still partly covered with the soiled white t-shirt. It's a lot. Sherlock can feel the hot come soak the already damp fabric before seeping into his burning, prickling skin. He lies there, gasping, crying, while John wrings yet another spurt and another from his fat, twitching cock.

“Beautiful, so beautiful...” John sighs, looking down at the mess he's made, wiping come off Sherlock's chin with his thumb that he afterwards offers Sherlock to suck. Despite the cock cage, Sherlock can feel an orgasm building and chokes out an incoherent plea, throbbing in his confinement. It hurts more than it gives him satisfaction as his whole body cramps and trembles when his climax sears through him. He chokes and splutters, almost brought to breaking point. John watches in blissed-out fascination.

He gets up quickly afterwards and pulls Sherlock's boneless body back into a sitting position, propping him up against the large grey couch next to the rug. Still, Sherlock has trouble staying upright until John unties his hands and massages his arms and wrists to get the circulation going again, giving Sherlock needles and pins. After a moment, John wraps his arms around the shaking body of his lover, who clings to his sturdy torso like a drowning man.

After a while, Sherlock's head tips back, looking up at John from dazed eyes. His legs still feel like jelly. His cock is swollen inside the chastity device; everything aches: his groin, his arse, his shoulders, his abdomen, his head. He concentrates on his breathing as he tries to focus, embracing John and the exhaustion. Sherlock Holmes fucked into oblivion is a sight to behold

John holds him, strokes him and kisses his palm, his wrist.

When he's sure Sherlock won't pass out, John puts his pants back on before he gets a glass of water from the kitchen – but no towel. Piss, spit and come are apparently to stay. Sherlock smiles, still dizzy, wearing John's bodily fluids like a badge of honour.

“Here, drink something.”

While Sherlock sips his water, John goes over to get his suitcase he's left in the corridor. When he returns, he's carrying what looks like a shoebox back to the living room.

“I've got you something.” He smiles as he takes a pair of black patent leather high heels from the box, with a broad heel and a strap to fasten them around the ankle.

Sherlock hands are still numb, so John has to sink down in front of him and guide his slender, still stockinged feet into the unfamiliar footwear. His socks are damp with piss, but John doesn't remove them.

While Sherlock still admires his present, John gets Sherlock's coat from the hook in the hallway.

Upon Sherlock's bewildered look, John explains: “We are going out. There's a place I think you'll find exciting. It's basically a large public lavatory. They'll make good use of you.”

Sherlock feels his tormented cock twitch in anticipation as John helps him up and into his coat before getting dressed himself and calling a cab.

Ten minuets later, Sherlock sits in the back of a car, just clad in high heels and a soiled t-shirt covered by his coat, with spit drying on his face, come on his clothes, smelling unmistakeably of piss. But John is holding his hand, soothingly stroking his thumb over Sherlock's knuckles as he gives the driver an address. The cabbie doesn't even arch an eyebrow, just nods and drives on.

John turns towards Sherlock and purrs into his ear: “You said you wanted more. I'll give you more. Tonight, I'll drown you in piss and come, love.” His wide smile is all the reassurance Sherlock needs.


	3. Berlin 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes Sherlock a special kind of clubbing.

Chapter 3

The cab ride doesn't take long. The club they are heading to is located in an old power station, built during the early days of the long gone GDR. It's a massive square block of freestone, its front separated by large columns – like the Stalinist version of a Greek temple, built to house a sacred flame and not just profane boilers and transformers.

And indeed, inside, the conditions could be described bacchanalian. Beats rumble and pound loud enough that the whole structure seems to be pulsing and vibrating with it; almost naked bodies twist and rub together as if engaged in some euphoric, archaic worship, joined in communion by the roaring music. Images of their infinite grinding dance freeze like a pagan relief, spellbound by the flashing strobe lights. Everyone seems to wear some sort of rubber or leather outfit – if they'd bothered with clothes at all and didn't go straight for no more than some sort of harness or straps and nothing more.

The vast main hall is reached via a long dark tunnel. After passing the bouncers, John had checked in their coats, and Sherlock's state of dishabille gets him more than just appreciative looks. While walking down the gloomy corridor, he can feel not only eyes rake over his exposed body. There's a brush of skin here and the touch of a riding crop there. He's glad that John is behind him, in a good position to fight more intrusive admirers off. Which he does once when a big, hairy bloke in leather grabs Sherlock around the waist and tries to pull him into the shadows. There's a brief shuffle to Sherlock's left, a growl and a sharp hiss, before the large paw clawing to his hip is gone.

'Good', Sherlock thinks with relieve, John didn't take him here to throw him to the wolves. He's not like Mycroft... Sherlock wishes suddenly for a line of cocaine or some pills – surely easily available here - to make the memories of that night go away and help him relax into the here and now. What happened still haunts him, especially at a place like this.

They don't pause when reaching the main dance floor of the club, packed with sweaty bodies. Instead, John steers them left and through a metal double door that leads to a concrete stairwell. It's much quieter in here as they descend into the belly of the building. People are sitting on the steps, smoking, drinking or just chilling. Some glance up when John and Sherlock pass; others are lost in their own world, with eyes closed, their heads leaning back against the cold, grey walls.

At the bottom of the stairs another dimly lit, narrow corridor seems to run along for miles. The building must be huge, Sherlock thinks. He quickly becomes disoriented following John's lead, who seems to know his way around the maze of mostly defunct service passages and maintenance tunnels. A sense of captivity befalls Sherlock, as if he's being trapped in a confined space.

After a few minutes, however, they stop in front of another metal door, not rusty or derelict, but painted a shiny crimson. A bouncer, dressed all in black with a thick neck and an earpiece, stands guard but after a brief once-over nods at John and Sherlock as if they've passed a silent assessment.

John pulls the heavy door open and motions for Sherlock to step inside. The room is bright, square, about a hundred feet long and nearly as wide. Floor, walls and ceiling are tiled white, as are some concrete benches in the middle. At one side, a trough runs the whole length of the wall, with a drain at the far end. The other side is partially lined with white china urinals. At the back, there are a few larger than usual cubicles, some with doors, some without. It smells of sweat, piss and disinfectant.

The place is simply a large public toilet, designed to play.

Which is evident by the people occupying it. Sherlock tries not to stare, but it's hard. It's not crowded, yet there are people engaged in all sorts of activities. On his left, a young man in small rubber shorts and nothing else is made to drink from an obviously blocked urinal. He doesn't seem too willing, for the man behind him is beating him with a short cane while holding him by the hair, pressing his face again and again into the dark yellow swill, shouting insults while others surrounding them watch. Sherlock hears them yell 'Drecksau', 'dummes Schwein' and ''Pissnelke and guesses that this might be a punishment of some sorts.

It wouldn't be for him. He almost unconsciously licks his lips as he imagines being ordered to clean the china basin, filled perhaps with the excretions of several men. His caged cock gives a sympathetic jerk and John grins at him. “I thought you might like this.” He murmurs, and Sherlock feels his cheeks colour as he gives a small, shy nod.

In the middle of the room, a scene is just about to unfold. A very young, lean Asian man (barely twenty by Sherlock's estimate) is kneeling in the middle of a circle of older men, all muscles and hairy chests, getting drenched in their piss as they take turns urinating all over his body. The piss is running down his naked limbs, dripping from his soaked fringe as he's smiling almost madly, his hard cock jutting out I front of him. He even scoops up piss from the floor with his hands to deliberately smear it over his cock, his belly, his thighs, moaning with pleasure. He can't get enough. 

Sherlock's heartbeat starts to race as he watches. He remembers John filling him up with his piss a mere hour ago, the sensation, the smell... he wants it again, desperately.

John's and Sherlock's entrance has turned some heads and the circle is opening. Lost in his memories, Sherlock is kind of magnetically drawn towards the young guy on the floor and steps willingly into the ring as John gives the small of his back a little approving shove.

Sherlock almost immediately sinks to his knees, pressing his mouth on the other man's in an instant. He tastes salty piss on his lips and groans as they open up to his assault. Kneeling in the lukewarm yellow puddle made by the men surrounding them he can feel his caged cock getting wet while piss sloshes against his open entrance as well as soaking the insides of his thighs. When the men standing around them become aware of the tunnel plug, surprised yet admiring words reach Sherlock's ears (“Geil.” “Krass.” “Heiß.”).

Suddenly, there are fingers smoothing over Sherlock's t-shirt. The young Asian is gathering piss from the floor with both hands, this time dripping it over the thin cotton covering Sherlock's chest. It quickly gets translucent, showing off Sherlock's pierced nipples, which earns him another round of ardent appreciation. The wet fabric, damp with the effusions of several strangers, clings to his light frame like a second skin. It's one of the most erotic sensations he's ever experienced.

When Sherlock reaches for the wet hard cock in front of him, however, John stops him by saying: “That's not for you, I'm afraid.”

True, as another man steps forward, pulling the Asian's head back by his drenched hair, baring his throat to Sherlock, who licks and nips and bites down, tasting, sighing, rocking his hips forward in a desperate attempt to get some friction for his poor confined cock on the slippery tiles.

“Du kannst ihn wichsen, aber pass auf, dass er nicht kommt,” [You can wank him a bit, but be careful not to make him come.] the German Dom says, and Sherlock eagerly resumes touching the boy. He can feel the Asian shudder in his grip as he pumps his cock viciously in a fist slippery with piss. The other men around them have started to jerk off as well.

“Please...” Sherlock whines, turning his head to find John, who watches him with his hands buried in the pockets of his jeans. His eyes are glazed over, however, and there's a prominent bulge forming in his trousers, so he definitely likes what he sees.

John understands. “I'd like to see them come all over those two.” John says to the other Dom, who just nods, still holding his sub's head up. Sherlock starts kissing his mouth again to stifle both their needy moans. They are just two horny sluts, living to serve and to be used.

It doesn't take long before the first streak of hot come form their audience hits Sherlock's forehead. As the good whores they are, they stop kissing, allowing their mouths to fall open to catch what's offered. Soon, another guy shoots all over both their faces, and that sets them off to start licking ejaculate from each other’s cheeks and chins. It's not kissing, its just greedy lapping and sucking, interspersed with some lustful biting.

Sherlock loves this, being the centre of attention. He's sinking deeper and deeper, losing himself in impatient touches, never quite enough, keeping him on edge. The sensation of thick white come covering him sets his skin alight, making him almost oversensitive.

As someone aims for the Asian boy’s chest, Sherlock is quick to duck down and lick it off his nipples and pectorals. It tastes sharp, a little pungent, quite different from John's.

There are nine or ten men surrounding them, and soon Sherlock's and the boy’s faces are covered in glistening come. Streaks of it are also decorating Sherlock's hair, the back of his t-shirt, his arms and the boy’s abdomen. They try to suck it off each other, but it's too much, and coming in quick succession. Only when the last man has shot his load all over them do they have the time to clean each other up more languidly, revelling in each other's responses to their mouths and tongues.

The boy's cock throbs in Sherlock's lose fist. “Bitte, oh bitte...” he pants, but his Dom just shakes his head and says firmly: “Nein, du geile kleine Sperma-Nutte, erst wenn ich fertig bin.” [No, you horny little come slut, only when I'm finished.]

Sherlock stares up at the Dom, the words making him shuffle back a little. The man's naked except for some heavy black biker boots, black leather driving gloves and a tight rubber shirt. His fat, circumcised cock is hard and leaking, but untouched. As the other men look on, some slumping down onto the nearest bench to get their breath back, the German pulls his Asian sub's face towards his cock and shoves it between willingly parting lips. The boy makes a delighted sound as his master starts to fuck his face, eagerly opening his throat to the fierce, almost brutal onslaught.

Sherlock had to let go of the cock in his hand and feels a bit superfluous, starting to come back up from the subserviant state of mind he's sunken into. His eyes find John's, staring up desperate and a little lost. John senses Sherlock's discomfort and knows what he needs.

“Come on, help you new friend.” He gestures over to the two men, one grunting above the other as he shoves his cock deep down a tight throat. The Asian is chocking and gagging, but his hands hold tight to the taller man's thighs as if to pull him even deeper into his body.

Sherlock can't go for the Dom's cock as it's buried inside a wet, open mouth, but there are still his full, furry bollocks, unattended, slapping against the Asian's chin. Sherlock moves closer, sliding on the piss-wet tiles until he's able to fasten his lips around the sac, and sucks. The man above him groans in approval and pushes his other hand into Sherlock's hair as Sherlock sets to work, dividing his attention between gently playing with the man’s swollen balls and licking spit from the Asian boy’s lips and chin.

When he pushes his tongue inside that strained mouth next to the massive cock already filling it, the boy makes a somewhat desperate noise, erratically grinding his hips against Sherlock's thigh. God, it feels so good! If he'd only be allowed to come, he'd spill a massive load all over the tiles. He's sure John would make him lick it up again afterwards.

Suddenly, the gloved hand in his hair pulls Sherlock away. He gasps with disappointment, as does the boy, but the man above them is just rearranging the scene. He turns a little and steps in between them, spreading his legs as he shoves his cock back down the Asian's throat. Sherlock now kneels behind him, staring for a few seconds at an exposed hole between hairy, muscular buttocks.

“Leck mich.” [Lick me.] The man in front of him demands, and that's all Sherlock needs to dive between his arse cheeks and press his tongue against the furled pucker. The man tastes of soap and sweat and something musky underneath. Sherlock inhales deeply, pressing his nose inside the man's creek while parting his buttocks even wider with both hands for better access.

He eagerly laps and sucks, licking broad stripes up and down the cleft, getting it nice and wet before pushing the tip of his tongue inside the loosened ring of muscle. The man in front of him growls and bucks, eliciting high-pitched, needy grunts from the young boy who must by now almost be suffocating from sucking cock.

Sherlock's new position has him grab the man's waist, thereby raising his own arse in the air. He can hear the crowd that has gathered again around them gasp as he fully exposes his open hole for everyone to see. He feels the stretch by now. He's been wearing this toy for far too long and it's getting difficult. It's almost too much to bear, like being split open. He feels vulnerable, humiliated, and truly fears he might make a mess. Not that anyone around would mind. But that's something he'll draw a line. He's sure John wouldn't push him past this limit either.

Suddenly, something wet hits his left buttock. It's not piss, because it's just a singular, sticky glob. It's not ejaculate either – not viscous enough for that. Ah, it must be spit then. John's? He has no idea.

But whoever started this, others soon follow. They aim for Sherlock's hole, and some succeed in hitting it. Others leave their slimy dollops on his arse cheeks, thighs, the small of his back... wherever they can reach. Soon, he feels dripping wet. His caged cock hangs heavy between his legs, leaking, aching, but Sherlock knows it will be some time before he'll be allowed to get off.

First of all, he has to serve another man. His tongue fucking and the other boy's cock sucking finally push the German over the edge. He comes down the Asian's throat with a deep sigh, holding his face in place while Sherlock can feel his hole flutter against his lips.

Afterwards, as the man entangles himself from between them, Sherlock and the boy immediately crush their lips together, Sherlock's tongue licking deep inside the other's mouth to get a taste of come. The Asian boy sucks his tongue as a reward to taste his master's ass. The surrounding men continue to spit at them, now on both their faces, until Sherlock can feel something warm hit his groin and belly while the boy in his arms trembles and shivers.

“I should get him a cage like your's is wearing.” Sherlock can hear the German say to John with a heavy accent before he continues: “Du notgeile Sau, na warte, das wirst du mir büßen.” [You needy pig, you'll answer me for that.] The boy is pulled up and away and dragged from the room, a heady smile on his face as he winks at Sherlock one last time.

Sherlock is left kneeling on the floor, panting, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The scene is over and the group dissolves, leaving John to take care of him. He's drenched in piss, come and spit and must look a right filthy mess.

“You are gorgeous.” John says, smiling down at him proudly. “Come on, let's clean you up a bit.” With that, he gestures over to the urinal trough, and Sherlock willingly crawls towards it.

Before he lies down into the shallow ditch, John rips his soaked t-shirt off his upper body. The bright light catches on his nipple piercings, making them sparkle and shine. John shoves the soiled fabric into Sherlock's mouth before he makes a small gesture with his head, indicating for Sherlock to get into position. Sherlock is so grateful he feels he might start crying.

First, he lies on his back. There's a thin stream of piss running over the tiles, as men a little further away empty their bladder. But Sherlock quickly becomes the centre of attention once again. Men step up next to him and start to relieve themself all over his body, especially his face and groin. Sherlock moans into his gag and turns his head this way and that to wash the congealing mess of saliva and ejaculate from his cheeks and forehead. The men willingly assist him, directing their hot streams towards his brow, nose and chin. The t-shirt in his mouth gets soaked quickly, allowing him to taste the men, piss slowly seeping into his mouth.

Sherlock bucks up helplessly when someone pisses on his pierced nipples, and rotates his hips as another man drenches his caged groin. “Der arme Junge,” [The poor boy] he hears one say, and eventually John has mercy with him and pulls the wet cloth from his mouth. Sherlock's lips part greedily, inviting anyone to fill him up, to use his mouth as their piss pot. And they do. Sometimes it's too much, and Sherlock gurgles and spits, but oh, does he love it, swallowing and swallowing until his belly is full near bursting.

“Turn around.” John tells him as he sees Sherlock's swollen abdomen. Sherlock quickly gets onto his front, now actually feeling how full he is, so embarrassingly horny that he ruts against the floor, the sensation increased by the pressure in his bowels.

His open hole is exposed once again, attracting most of the attention, but some men are gracious and wash his whole back with their yellow stream. Sherlock can feel it run and flow over his body, warm and gentle, and he can't help it, he humps the tiles, grunting and slurping like the piss whore he truly is while getting urinated on by numerous strangers. This is one of the best nights of his life so far. He's so very thankful to John for give this to him. He'll prove his gratitude later, at home, letting John do anything he wants to him. Suddenly, he's happy about the cock cage; without it this would have been over by now.

Eventually, however, he's clean, all come and spit washed off his body, his belly filled to bursting with salty urine. When John tells him to get up, he takes a moment, slithering and rolling around one last time, watching piss run between his spread fingers before getting to his feet. He's still wearing those black high heels, which makes it difficult to stand. Everything is slippery and Sherlock feels almost drunk, so John has to steady him. His skin is clammy, shiny with urine; it's dripping from his hair, his lashes, and his feet inside the shoes are soaked with it. He must smell disgusting. Yet he feels glorious. This is better than getting high. John grins at him.

“How are you?”

“Hyper.” Sherlock confesses.

Before steering him to the exit of the club, however, John shows him the showers where Sherlock is subjected to a hosing down with icy water by a tall, thin man in a white apron while John gets his coat. Sherlock crouches down, balancing on his high heels as he tries to protect his body from the cold spray, hugging his shins to minimise the surface of impact.

As they leave, Sherlock is trembling both from the cold water and the endorphins rushing through his blood stream. Somehow he knows that the night isn't over yet.

“I have a very special surprise for you at the flat.” John whispers into his ear as they sit in the cab, and the shiver running down Sherlock's spine has nothing to do with being cold.


	4. Berlin 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at the flat, John has a surprise for Sherlock: a bondage bag.

Back in the flat, John helps Sherlock out of his coat and leads him to the bedroom, where John pulls a hard-backed chair from the writing desk and indicates for Sherlock to sit. John looks down at him for a long moment, admiring his pale skin until gooseflesh rises on his arms and chest.

“Can you take a little more?”

Sherlock nods, his eyes two black saucers in his white face, fathomless and a little glazed.

John eventually allows him to take his shoes and socks off.

“Stay here.” John says quietly, and walks back into the living room where he sat his bag down before they left for the club. He returns with something large and black, rolled up and tugged under his left arm.

As he unfolds it, Sherlock's breathe stutters.

“So you know what this is?” John asks, kneeling on the floor, looking up at Sherlock over his shoulder.

Sherlock nods. “It's a bondage sack.” Sherlock whispers. His eyes have gone even wider in a mixture of fear and undisguised curiosity.

“I want to put you inside of it for the night.” Sherlock can hear the hint of a question mark at the end of the sentence. He knows that he could opt out if this now. But he doesn't want to, despite knowing that this will put him right at John's mercy. But hadn't he been there for quite a long while already?

He just nods in agreement.

“Come over here.” John stands up and stretches out his hand. Sherlock takes it.

“I'll remove the cock cage now, but the plug stays.” John mumbles against Sherlock’s skin just below his left ear, and Sherlock sighs and nods again.

To Sherlock's relieve, John takes the small key from his pocket and starts to unlock the bolts and metal ribbons trapping his penis. As he carefully starts to remove the stainless steel parts, Sherlock gasps in shock. His cock has been locked away for so long that every light brush of fingertips almost hurts. He's too sensitive; his nerves are on fire; blood shoots into his testicles, making them heavy, tingling with uncontrollable want. Sherlock has to bite down onto his lower lip to stifle a moan. John watches, enthralled, before cupping his balls and stroking him once, twice, until Sherlock throws his head back and whimpers in both agony and pleasure.

John can feel how close Sherlock is just from the few touches and quickly removes his hand, throwing the metal parts of the cock cage onto the bed before stepping back.

“Lie down.”

Sherlock tries to get his breathing back under control while staring at the pile of fabric on the floor. It looks like mat black neoprene. He shivers, imagining being confined in it for the night, unable to escape once it had been fastened around him. Is he truly ready for this?

His leaking cock twitches in response. He needs to be tied up, otherwise he won’t be able to withstand the impulse to wank himself into oblivion. Thank god that John is taking care of him, or he would rut himself raw against the carpet like a bitch in heat.

John is squatting down by now and has opened the bag’s front zipper to part the fabric, smoothing it out. He's offering his hand to Sherlock again to help him sit down. Sherlock holds onto it as he lowers himself, his heart beating fast and hard against his ribcage. The neoprene feels surprisingly soft against his skin.

First, Sherlock's feet are put into some kind of sewed-in foot bag at the bottom of the sack, securing them.

“John?” Sherlock asks in a low voice. “I think I need the loo first.” The piss he’d swallowed earlier is still sloshing around in his belly and his bladder is making demands.

“No, you don't. Now lean back.” John looks at him sternly.

Sherlock swallows but does as he's told. As he lies on his back, John puts each of his arms in one of the designated internal sleeves before pulling up the first zipper, careful as not to trap Sherlock's raging erection in its teeth. The bag closes around Sherlock lower half, hugging him tightly, making any leg movements impossible. Next, the bag is fastened with a strap around his neck, and a second zipper is pulled down from there to meet the first one above his groin. There, John connects and locks both zippers with a small padlock. 

Sherlock’s ensnared in this strait black cocoon, held tight, unable to move except for a slight wriggle.

There are D-rings at the sides of the bag; John could lace him up even tighter. But they don't have rope at hand tonight, and to be honest, the experience is already overwhelming enough.

“Okay?” John asks. Sherlock hums in approval.

It's amazing. The neoprene does give a little, clinging to his skin, trapping him most effectively.

“There's a face mask coming with it. Do you want that, too?”

Sherlock swallows, takes a deep breath. “Would you like that?” He asks.

“Very much.”

“Then put it on.”

John's eyes are dark as he takes the black neoprene mask and pulls it slowly over Sherlock's head. His world goes dark.

“Don't leave me alone.” Is the last thing Sherlock can say, his voice shaking slightly, before his mouth is covered as well. The only way he can breathe now is through two small cavities over his nostrils.

“I won't.” John promises as his fingers fasten the mask around Sherlock's neck. 

Being able to hear John and sense his movements anchors him and prevents him from drifting off. He is totally immobilised, perfectly bound and bundled up, like an object, a doll, for John to use at his pleasure. The neoprene feels good against his skin, smooth and warm. He knows that it is breathable, so even if something should obstruct the small air holes he won't suffocate immediately if he'd keep his breathing pattern stable and under control. Yet he can already feel his breathing speed up in excitement and arousal (and perhaps a little instinctive panic at his helpless state) the longer he's lying rigid on the floor, bound, blind and effectively gagged, deprived of all senses, forced into stillness.

His cock twitches between his legs, pulsing, seeking friction from the slightly rough material surrounding it. If he concentrates, he can buck his hips just a bit...

“God, you are so needy...” He can hear John's voice next to his right ear. He's so close. This somehow grounds Sherlock, gives him a sense of security and belonging. He hums in reply.

“Well, then I guess you'll have to suffer a bit more. Patience, Sherlock. We both need some rest.”

Sherlock can hear John get up and walk over to the bed, presumably taking pillows and blankets and throwing them onto the floor next to him. There's the rustle of fabric as John undresses. When he lies down next to Sherlock, he places an arm over his full abdomen.

“I'm right here, right next to you. If you need anything, if it gets too much, just make a sound and I'll let you out. You look beautiful. Good night. If you stay like this till tomorrow, I'll fuck you, I promise.”

This is enough of an incentive for Sherlock to decide that he won't ask to be released, no matter what.

Sherlock listens to John's breathing evening out, a sign that he's falling asleep. Yet Sherlock knows that John's a light sleeper, due to his army training, and will probably wake numerous times during the night anyway to check on him. No need to worry.

As much as being confined like this turns Sherlock on, it also gives him an eerie sense of peace. He can't do anything. All there is for him to do is breathing, listening to his own heartbeat and his blood rushing through his veins. Quiet fills his head; under different circumstances, this would drive him mad. But not tonight. Not after those two weeks of high-strung anticipation and coming completely undone this evening. Now finally getting some rest is somehow alluring. All responsibility is taken from him. He can relax. John's in charge. 

Eventually, Sherlock falls asleep as well.

Yet he jerks back awake violently some time later. John sits up next to him in an instant as well and starts to fumble with the zips, until Sherlock hums in desperation and shakes his head, signalling him to stop. It's not a panic attack that woke him.

Sherlock is breathing hard, and it is humiliating, but oh god, at the same time, it feels so good to let go. Warm wetness fills the bag. 

The last time this has happened, Sherlock had been five years old. His parents had forced him to spent the summer with an ageing aunt and he'd hated every minute of it. Her house was old and dark and the toilet had been on the ground floor at the end of a dim corridor when Sherlock's room had been upstairs, reached by a creaking staircase lined with paintings of long dead relatives. 

He'd been so embarrassed that he had hidden the damp, smelly sheets until there's been an opportunity to burn them in a fireplace in one of the disused rooms. He still remembers the tingle of excitement that had come over him that night, though, knowing that he had done something filthy and forbidden. 

Now he sighs with relieve.

John must have sensed what happened as his hand tentatively wanders lower on Sherlock's body until it comes to rest over Sherlock's crotch. He must feel some of the dampness gathering there, for he pats Sherlock a little and chuckles.

“Did you make a mess, dear? Well, now you have to lie in it till the morning.” John tells him with a smirk in his voice before lying back down. He's soon gone back to sleep. 

Sherlock is too keyed up to rest. He can feel his own piss slosh around in the bag. It's a lot, running down his legs, pooling beneath him, riding slowly up his back until his whole body is soaking in it. It's getting cold, but the idea of being forced to lie in his own urine indefinitely arouses him immensely; being unable to move, to clean himself up... 

Helpless. 

Humiliated. 

John knowing what has happened and making him endure this punishment for his mishap...

His cock twitches, rapidly hardening.

He remembers that all those years ago he had stayed in bed as well at first as he had thought about a way out of this mess, tossing and turning – even rubbing himself? - in those damp blankets.

It's depraved and dirty and so hot that now he starts to buck his hips again, rubbing his cock against the wet fabric until he starts to chafe.

Eventually, he must have fallen asleep again (or did he just zone out?) because the next thing Sherlock knows is that he is roughly manhandled and rolled onto his stomach. The cold piss starts to slosh around again, and Sherlock nearly loses it as he can feel it running over his skin inside the bag, rivulets seeping over his arms and legs, drenching his groin and chest as he comes to lie on his front.

There's another double zip on the back of the bag which John now slowly opens right above his arse. He hums in approval upon seeing Sherlock's still open hole, the base of the plug glistening from the piss he'd been forced to spent the night in.

“You dirty little bugger.” John mumbles, before he starts to pull the plug out.

Sherlock gasps beneath his mask and has trouble breathing as the toy is finally removed. It's been inside him for so long that he feels empty without it. To his amazement, his hole stays open, cool air touching his insides.

“Like a wet cunt...,” John whispers, running one finger over Sherlock's sensitive rim, pushing inside, massaging the exposed walls. Sherlock shudders visibly in his confinement. “You're so open. Your hole is bright red, but your insides shine a beautiful pink. I'm sure I could put my whole hand into you right now. Shall I try?”

Sherlock nods fervently.

“Greedy slut.”

There's a squelching sound, and then cold lube hits his rectum. But John has mercy and only uses three fingers to quickly slick him up before climbing on top of his thighs, straddling him before and sinking down.

John groans with pleasure and Sherlock answers him with a moan stifled by his mask. He can't meet John's thrusts as he fucks him hard and fast, just chasing his own orgasm, but it doesn't matter, Sherlock is so deprived of friction to his cock that humping the floor through the bag sets him off in no time anyway. He can feel his orgasm approaching like a tidal wave, crashing over him, almost drowning him. He spills two weeks of pent up semen into the bag, mixing with his piss and sweat, his hole body shuddering and convulsing.

“Your hole is gaping. You're so wet, I'm sure you can take more than my cock.” John pants, pushing deep inside Sherlock without meeting any resistance. He sits back a little on Sherlock's thighs and pushes both his thumbs into his arsehole next to his huge cock, prying Sherlock open. His thumbs massage Sherlock's still spasming, sensitive rim while John's thrusts become a little shallow due to the changed angle. It feels like Sherlock is being ripped apart, unable to do anything about it.

“God, Sherlock, the things you let me do to you. You are beautiful, so beautiful like this. I want to fuck you forever.” John is babbling while rocking into him. Eventually, he removes his thumbs and replaces them with the index and middle finger of his left hand, sliding them inside Sherlock on each side of his cock, massaging simultaneously his own shaft and Sherlock's walls. Sherlock whimpers, completely opened up, ready to be used. His orgasm has left him gasping for breathe as he trembles beneath John, ready to take everything.

“Oh, fuck, this is good, so good...,” John sighs before he falls over the edge, spilling deep inside Sherlock's abused, worn hole. He continues to move until he's fully spent, his fingers inside Sherlock smeared with his own come, while Sherlock sobs into his mask in blissful agony. His arse feels on fire, sore, stretched and abused, and he registers with shock that he can't clench his hole. Lube and come ooze out of him, with John's cock still inside him, and he's unable to clench or stop it.

John stays inside him and must be watching.

“Jesus...,” he whispers. “So open. Can you clamp down on me?”

Sherlock makes a choked noise behind his mask, sounding desperate and embarrassed, and John chuckles lowly. “I think I'll keep you open like this so I can bend you over and fuck you anytime I want. My boy cunt.”

Sherlock just nods, helpless. He'd do anything John wants, even if it scares him.

When John pulls out of his gaping, dripping hole, he briefly rests his head between Sherlock's shoulder blades before getting up. Sherlock doesn't fight the tunnel plug as it's pressed back inside him. It slides easily in place as if it is a part of his body. Afterwards, John does close the zip over his cleft and turns him on his back again. Shaking fingers tug at his masks to remove it, allowing Sherlock to gulp in some much needed air. Black spots are dancing before his eyes, so he must have been way more deprived of oxygen than his brain had registered.

Sweaty curls cling to Sherlock's forehead as he stares up at John in a state of severe depletion, despite having actually slept a few hours this night. John smiles down at him, even lowers his head to tenderly kiss him on the mouth. It's almost chaste and so sweet that Sherlock has to close his eyes as to not succumb to the overwhelming sense of sentiment that wells up inside him. John's hands stroke down over his tied up body, roaming freely over the expanse of black neoprene, and it's so gentle that Sherlock fears he might start to cry for real.

“I think I leave you like this a little while longer.” John whispers into his ear. “Would you like that?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock sighs. He'd like that very much. What else is there to say for him? He knows his place by now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To give you an idea what the bag looks like they are using: https://www.mr-s-leather.com/deluxe-neoprene-sleepsack/


	5. Berlin 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock being Sherlock, he indulges into bondage; perhaps a bit too much for John's liking. He's about to teach him a lesson.

Sherlock loves the bag. Perhaps a bit too much. Being kept inside it gives him peace, quieting his mind. He begs John frequently over the next few days to put him into it and deposit him alone in the bedroom for more and more prolonged periods of time. 

John, being a good doctor, has doubts. He knows it could be dangerous to leave Sherlock alone when bound so tightly, totally immobilised. He might get dehydrated or suffer from insufficient oxygen supply. Yet it seems to be the thing Sherlock wants. And who is John to deny Sherlock what he wants?

They start slowly: when John is watching telly, reading or working on his laptop, Sherlock is swaddled inside the bag, blindfolded and pushed under the bed. John checks on him every 30 minutes. Sherlock's not gagged, so he could call for help if need be and John makes sure he drinks enough during those sessions to stay hydrated. Afterwards, he looks him over, measuring his blood pressure and massaging his limbs to ensure circulation.

But Sherlock being Sherlock, he wants more. In his view, John is unnecessarily overcautious in demanding safety procedures and basic supervision. Sherlock explains again and again that he knows what he can handle and firmly declares that he can cope with much more extreme situations; that he actually has to take a risk to be able to let go. 

Eventually, John gives in. He ties Sherlock up and stores him in one of the large built-in cupboards of the flat when he goes out to do some shopping. The concession Sherlock has to make is that they won't use the hood or a blindfold when he's locked away and on his own. There's also an open bottle of water next to Sherlock's head. If need be, he could push it over and lick some water from the floor. John wants to plant a mobile inside the cupboard as well but is met with Sherlock's stern rejection.

“I have to feel confined and abandoned... left behind, for this to do things to me. Please, John, trust me with this.” Sherlock begs until John finally relents. He knows it's crazy and irresponsible – but that's how they are.

Yet John knows he shouldn't allow Sherlock to have his way like this; it gnaws on him. Shouldn't he be the responsible adult here? Who's setting the rules in their relationship?

As he observes the effect the bag has on Sherlock over the next few days, John grows increasingly weary.

After a few hours inside it, Sherlock feels slightly dizzy. He starts to float, he says, his head getting light as if under the influence of his preferred narcotics. He continues to plead with John to put the hood over his head, to gag him, blindfold him, use earplugs. He wants to be deprived of every sensual stimulation to enhance the effect. 

John refuses. It could be too much, he explains, and Sherlock might lose himself in this state of forced calm and self-induced ecstasy. It's a dangerously small divide between recklessness and enjoyment they are strolling along as they explore Sherlock's boundaries.

John knows he has to put his foot down at some point. He also knows that he has to ask for sacrifices in return of giving Sherlock what he craves.

In a quit pro quo manner, John does continue with Sherlock's body modification. If Sherlock wants to be put in the bag, he has to accommodate ever larger plugs before, during or after. Not just accept them; he has to beg for them, lube them up and push them inside himself regardless of his inclination or mood. 

John expects him to steadily increase the size he's able to take. He even demands that Sherlock accompanies him to a sex shop where he has to chose some extremely huge toys which earns him an appreciative look from the owner. In addition to the tunnel plug they buy massive dildos that prove difficult getting used to at first, even with copious amounts of lube. 

Yet John orders Sherlock to play with them for hours, to select ever larger toys and fuck himself on them for John's pleasure, moaning like a whore and pretending to love it. Sherlock obeys. 

After two weeks, he's unable to clench his sphincter any longer. John just feeds him astronaut's food and protein shakes – nothing solid any longer – for they are both not into scat or nappy play. Sherlock has to wear a plug all the time except for when John allows him to evacuate. The toys have become so large that Sherlock can hardly move with them inside himself. He either lies in bed or sits on a hard wooden chair, ready to be used, waiting to be wrapped in his bag.

John can now bend Sherlock over anytime, anywhere and just push inside him. Not just with his cock, but with his hands as well. Once he even uses his foot.

John's sickeningly aware that he's pushing Sherlock too far, that he exploits his obedience and his needs in an unjustifiable manner – but he can't restrain himself. It's too fascinating to watch how far Sherlock is prepared to go, how much he debases himself. They are mutually goading each other to greater and greater extremes. The situation is escalating – but neither of them seems able to stop.

John starts to hatch grosser plans. He's had those fantasies for a long time, and as things are quickly spiralling out of control, he's unable to suppress them any longer. He dreams of manipulating that beautiful body in an ultimate form of surrender, a visible manifestation of his power over Sherlock, forming his body and mind after his will. Not with tattoos and piercings like Mycroft had done – no, he wants something even more permanent: pull out Sherlock's teeth, cut off his tongue, paralyse him with a surgical sectioning of his spinal cord (perhaps below the neck; perhaps below T1 to cause a lower paraplegia and ensure Sherlock could still use his arms), remove his lower ribs to lace his waist impossibly tight for a man his size.

John's a doctor after all. He used to be an army surgeon. He's able to perform the necessary operations himself if he'd be able to obtain a theatre...

He's starting to scare himself a little.

Meanwhile, Sherlock knows what they do isn't healthy. But he's always had a self-destructive streak, and indulging it while at the same time amazing and satisfying John seems appropriate, even worthwhile. Sherlock gets off on overcoming his own internal resistance. Giving in to something he knows he should find abhorrent is becoming his ultimate kick.

Despite being dimly aware that he's losing something over those days and weeks, he's unwilling to call it quits. Instead, he's headlong crossing a line he might never be able to return from. The evolving dynamics between them make it impossible to say no and abstain. The more Sherlock regresses and hands over control to John, the more deviant John's fantasies become.

John has to admit to himself that he absolutely loves using Sherlock when he's tied up and open, overwhelmed by the sheer incredibility the degrading things he begs John to do to him entail. 

One day, for example, John forces a spider gag into Sherlock's mouth before storing him under the bed. When the mood strikes John, he pulls the mummified body out from under the bedframe, opens his trousers and fucks Sherlock's face until he feels he's about to come. That's when he pulls out and puts Sherlock back. John repeats this over the whole day, and when he finally comes onto Sherlock's face the man beneath him is writhing in the bag despite the belts John has attached to it to bind him even tighter, moaning around the metal braces, his tongue bulging out between stretched, glistening lips. Spit has run down his chin and throat, making a wet spot on the floor beneath Sherlock's head, soaking his curls. John let's Sherlock lie in it even after he's shot his load, for him to well in it. It's an intense day for both of them.

In the evening, John has Sherlock fuck himself on a dildo almost four inch in diameter. He's still wearing the spider gag, saliva dripping from his abused mouth. Sherlock can't protest, being gagged like this, and wouldn't anyway. John enjoys pushing his fingers inside the wet orifice of Sherlock's oral cavity. The noises Sherlock makes are a delightful mixture of needy whimpers and painful grunts while sweat runs down his strained spine. John only allows him to stop after his third orgasm is wrought from his exhausted body and he's nearly collapsing on the living room floor, boneless and totally spent. 

Afterwards, Sherlock's arse is gaping even more than usual. He's unable to walk back into the bedroom. John has to carry him in his arms, like he might carry a blushing bride over the threshold. Sherlock has long stopped blushing. His lean, white limbs clutch to John's sturdy frame as if he's the last hold of a drowning man.

After placing an almost unconscious Sherlock on the bed, John continues to play with his hole, spreading his arse cheeks apart to stare at Sherlock's slack rim in a kind of disgusted fascination. Sherlock is so wrung out that he can't protest John fisting him, he just takes John punching his hole because that's what he's there for. He's just an open cunt, made to be fucked.

The next day, Sherlock is unusually quiet and pliant. John vows to abstain from any anal play for the day. Instead, he keeps Sherlock close, strokes his hair and back, hugs and pets him and eventually masturbates him in the afternoon, Sherlock kneeling in the middle of the mattress, staring at John as if he'd hung the moon. John murmurs soothing promises into his skin as he kisses him, deep yet soft, before tucking the covers around him and holding him in his arms until his breath has evened out and he's gone to sleep.

But will John be able to keep himself in check for long?

He's not blind, he can see how being treated like an object changes Sherlock – and he's not sure it's for the better. True, Sherlock has become much more controllable – but that's not what John wants if he's honest with himself. Because Sherlock's fierce independence and unrelenting renitancy his extreme unruliness, have been mayor character traits that drew John to Sherlock in the first place. John needs the challenge of resistance; nothing turns him on as unfailingly as breaking someone's defences. And Sherlock used to provide for it aplenty.

Only now, John has to admit, Sherlock is becoming too quiet and obedient. At first, John fears he has broken him, destroyed something within him even Mycroft had been unable to crush. It takes a few days for John to realise that Sherlock is content, that he has accepted his role and truly craves for the ever escalating treatment John inflicts upon him. It seems to be the only way in which he can finally surrender: voluntarily becoming the inanimate object of John's darkest sexual fantasies. 

But instead of satisfying John, it raises his hackles. Because Sherlock shouldn't just be a thing to be used – even if he John tells him so in a scene. He's a human being with feelings, needs and predilections, if he likes it or not. True, it can be complicated and messy, being aware of one's emotional demands and chasing them. Their current dynamics give Sherlock an easy out by providing a way to ignore his emotional requirements even more than he usually does in favour of morphing into a soulless fucktoy, always ready, never complaining, but also totally devoid of any personality. His soul is fading.

John knows he should explain to Sherlock that ignoring feelings, being degraded and objectified, is not what their relationship is about. On the contrary, John wants for Sherlock to be able to explore his emotional requirements, to accept them and come to terms with them. He should be confident and aware in his surrender, not simply sliding deeper and deeper into this deranged, dissociative headspace, 

And yet, it's so very tempting to keep Sherlock as a subservient fuckdoll. Besides, when had Sherlock ever truly listened to John in the first place?

…

John is curious how he may be able to shake Sherlock from his newfound poise. After about a month, he decides to up the ante even more. He puts Sherlock into the bag before going out clubbing, forcing one of their largest plugs up his arse before tying him up. 

This time, Sherlock is stored in the closet with a dildo gag attached to his face. John tells him before leaving that he has plans with him tonight – but doesn't disclose what those plans exactly constitute of. Sherlock has plenty of time – bound and gagged and stored in a dark cupboard – to figure it out, keep his mind busy and come up with scenarios. 

The images his brain creates are so arousing he fears he might pass out.

The neoprene hugs him tightly, enhanced by ropes braided around his rubbery cage. He can breath just fine, but is unable to move. If need be, he could somehow wiggle out of the cupboard (the doors aren't locked) but it would be a challenge. He writhes a little in the sack, experiencing how strictly it holds him, how utterly helpless he is. It's intoxicating. He's lying in the dark, waiting to be used, the only sound his ragged breathing. He moans behind his gag as he bites down onto the short bulbous part pushed into his mouth, even sucking it a little. God, it's lovely, just what he needs. He wishes for it to never end. But then the end might be even sweeter than the lustful agony of anticipation. 

John goes to the same club he went with Sherlock previously. But tonight he doesn't enter the basement. He stays on the dance floor level, mingling with the crowd after his first drink. He doesn't want to leave Sherlock alone for too long – but he also needs to choose someone he likes and who he thinks Sherlock might find appealing as well. Not some drugged psycho or overexcited kid – it has to be someone who knows what he's getting into and who'll accept his lead as well as Sherlock's condition without putting up an argument.

They meet in the middle of the dance floor. John's not dressed overtly showy – he forwent rubber or leather. He's just wearing a tight black t-shirt and black Levis 501, riding low on his hips and hugging his arse nicely; no underwear, as not to spoil the cut.

A young man around Sherlock's age is dancing a little closer, looking at John from below his lashes before messily taking a sip from a water bottle. The liquid sloshes over his chin, runs down his throat and soaks his already damp white tank top, clinging to his muscular upper body. His short hair is darkish, but John can't make out the exact colour due to the flickering strobe lights. All he can see are high cheekbones, a prominent chin, broad shoulders and narrow hips clad in tiny rubber shorts. Black Doc Martens are laced up to the man's knees.

He looks truly delectable. As he shimmies closer, John stands still and watches him until the man smiles wickedly, takes John's hand and places it right over his groin. John can feel an impressive length throb beneath the shiny rubber.

They leave the club together a few minutes later.

Back at the flat, John invites his guest – his name is Mark – to pour himself a drink while he gets Sherlock from the cupboard, placing him in the middle of the bedroom floor. The light is dimmed but Sherlock squints nonetheless after the darkness in the wardrobe. He's not sure what's about to happen next and tenses a little. John, sensing his uneasiness, brushes a dark curl from his forehead and smiles down at him assuringly.

When John leads Mark into the bedroom a few moments later, the man's eye go wide in a mixture of surprise and appreciation. Sherlock is lying motionless on the floor, wrapped tight in his black cocoon, a large dildo protruding from his blushing face, his pale eyes open now but unfocused. Their guest has to take a sip of his drink while John explains: “Mark, this is your fucktoy for tonight. I want to watch you getting yourself off on it.”

At this, Sherlock eyes eventually flicker over to really look at the stranger John has brought with him: athletic, with submissive tendencies, a bottom but not really into BDSM, on Grindr, likes anonymous encounters, has been in a long-distance relationship for some years but split up recently, works with his hands, but not a builder, a carpenter maybe...

Nice. Sherlock is eager to serve him.

But first John makes him watch as he puts his arm around the man's shoulder and pulls him in for a deep, lazy kiss. He lets his other hand roam down Mark's chest, all in full view of Sherlock, blunt fingers trailing slowly along the waistband of those tight shorts before firmly groping Mark's groin. There's a zip running from the front of those rubber pants all the way to its back, ending just beneath Mark's tailbone. John starts to open it, pulling it down while Mark watches enraptured, his arm slung around John's waist. They stand close together, smiling at each other, and Sherlock feels a sudden pang of something he's not prepared to face or analyse.

Mark's hard cock pops out immediately, thick and already a little wet at the slit, the head red and swollen. John walks around him, his hand sliding between Mark's slightly splayed legs, opening him up. When John comes to stand behind him, he pushes two fingers between Mark's arse cheeks and feels his hole. Mark closes his eyes and tilts his head, baring his throat, wrapping his own left fist around his cock, squeezing it firmly while leaning his back against John's shoulder for leverage.

He looks delicious, all taut muscle and sweaty skin. John's eyes meet Sherlock's over Marks shoulder, and he blinks, silently transmitting his consent.

That's all John needs; he smiles as he pulls the tank top over Mark's head before gently pushing him over to Sherlock, one hand between his shoulder blades, the other still on his partly naked arse. 

Their visitor plants his chunky boots on either side of Sherlock's head, so that he gets a prime view of his perineum, his balls, the vein on the underside of his shaft and his furled hole. Mark's clean shaven; Sherlock approves. He can feel his mouth water behind the gag that stifles his moan.

“Let me slick you up.” John mumbles, fetching the lube from the bedside cabinet. Sherlock can do nothing but watch as John pushes the tip of his index finger inside Mark's hole, carefully circling a little before sliding in deeper. The man above him groans and leans forward to improve the angle of penetration.

“Yes...” he gasps suddenly when John hits the magic spot.

John hums. “Another one?”

“Please.” Mark widens his stance to allow John better access.

Soon, he has three of John's fingers up his arse. Sherlock stares up at the spectacle unfolding, forced into the role of spectator as Mark starts to loosely fist his cock. A bead of precome drips down and lands on Sherlock's cheek. The smell of sex and musk is heavy in the room. Sherlock sighs behind his gag as he wiggles and undulates on the floor. He's getting impatient. John grins behind Mark's back and continues to finger him a little while longer until his hole feels nicely loose and slippery.

“I think you are ready now.” He tells their guest, and the man nods, his eyes a little glassy.

John steps back and sits down on the bed. “Go on then. Use him. Show me what you can take.”

The dildo protruding from Sherlock's mouth isn’t overtly long but rather thick, with three round bulges increasing in diameter down to the base fastened above Sherlock’s mouth.

Mark places one hand on Sherlock's sternum as he lowers himself onto his knees, squatting over Sherlock’s face. His scent is much stronger now, enveloping Sherlock, dark, animalistic and syrupy thick. Sherlock can see Mark's stretched rim flutter, reddened by John’s work. 

Mark tentatively rubs the blunt head of the dildo over his hole, brushing back and forth as if to tease himself until John passes him the bottle of lube. Mark takes his time to slick up the dildo, making eye contact with John while he works the gooey substance onto the hard, black rubber until it's glistening wet.

Mark's gaze is hazy, his green eyes wide and gleaming. Sherlock feels the heat radiating from his body as he prepares the toy. Eventually, he glances over his Shoulder at Sherlock as if waiting for permission. Upon receiving a curt nod, Mark positions himself above the dildo before finally sinking down onto it, sighing with a drawn-out sound of pure pleasure. 

He steadies Sherlock’s head with one hand clumsily pushed into his short, blond hair while the other stays on Sherlock's chest. As the tip of the dildo breaches him, he spreads his fingers as if anchoring himself. While slowly taking the toy deeper, Mark moves his hand to adjust the angle, his fingers sliding over Sherlock's ribcage until they come to rest at the base of his long throat just below his Adam’s apple, touching his skin above the neoprene. Sherlock has a prime view of the tight red pucker stretching around the black toy. Lube squelches as the muscle gives and the rubber shaft sinks deeper and deeper. It's beautiful.

When the dildo is fully seated, Mark waits a little to adjust to the stretch, grinding his hips in small circles. Sherlock can't see his face but there’s no discomfort showing in the arch of his spine. The teeth of the zipper brush against Sherlock's sweaty face, leaving angry marks.

After a moment, Mark starts to move in earnest, riding the toy; his strong thighs do most of the lifting as his arse rubs against Sherlock's cheeks. Sherlock wishes he could replace the dildo with his tongue and lick deep inside Mark's hole. 

Suddenly, the hand from Sherlock’s hair, holding him in place, is removed, presumably to wrap around Mark's erection. Sherlock can't see it but Mark’s balls hit his chin with every thrust as he hears slapping noises, flesh rubbing flesh.

Sherlock stays very still, looking up to find John's face. Those blue eyes above are fixed on him while their guest chases his orgasm. John is sitting on the mattress, his own cock in hand, wanking languidly. But he's not watching Mark. Instead, he's staring at Sherlock, hungrily and determined. Sherlock is bathing in his gaze. The head of John's cock peaks out of his fist, red and shiny; the leather of Mark's high boots brush over his cheeks and he loves it, the feel, the scent – it’s perfect. 

Until Mark's hand starts to close around Sherlock's throat. He can feel his oxygen supply being slowly cut off. Yet none of the other two men seem to notice. Panic wells up inside Sherlock. He tries to swallow but can't. He's grunting, choking, but Mark doesn't loosen his grip. Sherlock can't move, can't struggle or defend himself as a stranger almost strangles him. It's terrifying.

John watches, enraptured. Sherlock tries to plead with his eyes but John's face stays somewhat closed off. Eventually, Sherlock twists on the floor, almost throwing Mark off of him.

“Play with your nipples.” John rasps, his eyes heavy lidded as his hand speeds up. Mark's hand leaves Sherlock’s throat, making it easier for him to breath. Sherlock tries to inhale as deep as possible through his nose, smelling lube and sweat and sex. The man above him is breathing heavily as well, his rhythm quickening.

Mark spreads his knees a little wider, changing the angle, and suddenly almost howls as the dildo hits his sweet spot. He circles his hips a few times before fucking himself in earnest now. Sherlock tastes blood as his lip is split from Mark's forceful movements. His back is glistening, slick with sweat. Sherlock wants to taste it. 

Suddenly, Mark throws his head back in ecstasy, panting hard. Sherlock moans into his gag, slightly raising his head with to meet Mark’s rocking body, pushing the toy into his spasming hole as firmly as he can. 

John's mouth has fallen open as he watches, his pink tongue darting out, its tip resting on his lower lip. Suddenly, Mark arches his spine and grips both sides of Sherlock's hips to get better leverage, pressing so hard back against Sherlock's face that he fears his nose might get broken.

Sherlock’s own cock is painfully hard in his neoprene confine while his rim contracts around the fat plug splitting him open. Every movement of his pelvis causes him pain. His lower abdomen is almost entirely filled with the hard rubber cylinder, straining his bowels almost past endurance. To add to his discomfort, John had put a cock ring on him earlier, so he’s unable to come. John hadn’t allowed him to for the previous three days either. His balls feel like bursting, especially with this enthusiastic stranger on top of him, riding him, fucking himself into oblivion, panting, moaning...

“God, I’m coming.” Mark almost shouts, his voice rough, and Sherlock wishes he could do the same. 

John reacts quickly, almost jumping off the bed. He takes Mark's glass from the bedside cabinet and holds it in front of the gasping man to catch every spurt of hot semen. It must be quite a lot, judging by the time it takes Mark to climax.

When he’s finished, Mark greedily wraps his shaking hands around John’s neglected cock and takes it into his mouth. He’s still riding out his aftershocks as he sucks John off, his head bobbing up and down John’s thick shaft. Sherlock stares up at them, unable to do anything but look, and the frustration is almost killing him. 

Because that’s for him to do! Not for some random stranger. John is his. Tasting his cock is his reward and privilege for submitting to his every whim without hesitation.

As if sensing Sherlock's thoughts, John suddenly pulls out of Mark’s alluring mouth with a wet pop. It only takes a few fierce pulls to get him off, and then he comes with a low shout all over Mark’s face.

The man is still panting as John’s come drips over his nose, lips and chin. Sherlock is furious. But all he can do is blink rapidly. As if to remind Mark that he's still there as well, he pushes the dildo deep into his by now sensitive arse. Mark groans, starting to pull away.

“Get up.” John growls, and Mark obliges. He's kneeling above Sherlock, his hole still twitching, unable to yet stand on his shaking legs. 

“Turn. Show him your face.” Mark clumsily scrambles over Sherlock, trying to arrange his trembling limbs until he's facing the man beneath him.

“Open the straps. Take the dildo out.”

Mark fumbles a little but eventually succeeds. Sherlock coughs and splutters as the gag is removed and the short, thick counterpart of the dildo is pulled from between his lips.

“Kiss.” John tells them, and Mark lowers his face, eagerly pressing his come-covered lips to Sherlock's, pushing his tongue deep inside him. It's messy. Sherlock can taste John and sighs, opening wide.

“Lick his face clean, slut.” John says and Sherlock does, taking his time to lap at Mark's skin until every last trace of John's ejaculate is gone. They stare at each other, and the close proximity allows Sherlock to take in the flush on Mark's face, his stubble, the brown freckles in his green eyes, hooded now from his orgasm, his lascivious smile. He slowly opens his mouth to show the come gathered on his tongue. Mark's grin widens as he lets a thick drop of spit fall from his own lips right into that open mouth beneath. Sherlock swallows.

John coughs and breaks the spell.

“Get up. There’s a shower down the hall.” He says, rather matter-of-factly, and their guest staggers to his feet. With one look back over his shoulder down at Sherlock, he leaves the bedroom to clean himself up, grabbing his discarded top but not pulling his zip close again. His spent cock hangs heavy between his legs, still thick despite its flaccid state.

John tucks himself away before kneeling down onto the floor beside Sherlock's head, gazing intently down at him, stoking his thumb over his hot cheek. Sherlock’s jaw aches a little from biting down onto the toy, and John gently massages his face before grabbing the dildo gag again. 

“Clean it. Thoroughly.” There's a dark gleam in John's eyes as Sherlock opens his mouth again to get the dildo stuffed back in, this time with its used side.

Sherlock sucks and licks, tasting lube, rubber, salt and tangy musk mixing with John's come on his tongue. It's filthy, but he has no choice. John holds the toy firmly in place.

Sherlock needs a few minutes to accomplish his task. Eventually, John pulls the dildo away to see if Sherlock did a thorough job. As the toy is glistening with spit and nothing else, John nods with approval before putting it on the bed.

“I’m seeing our guest out. I’ll be right back.”

He strokes Sherlock's face once again before leaving him, still bound inside the bag on their bedroom floor. Sherlock is so hard by now that he fears to pass out. Yet he refrains form calling after John. 

All good things come to those who wait.


	6. Berlin 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock disobeys John and acts defiantly. John punishes him. Things get a little messy.
> 
> TW for blood, non-con and violence.

Sherlock can hear low voices down the hall, some shuffling, a door closing. John must be seeing Mark out. Good, Sherlock thinks.

He's pleased that John quickly returns to the bedroom and kneels down beside him. Only as he starts to deftly undo the belts tied around Sherlock's bag does Sherlock want to protest. He wants to stay like this, for John to use him again or put him back into the cupboard, but apparently John has other plans. Sherlock bites his tongue and waits.

When he’s unwrapped, John helps him sit up, massaging his arms, legs and back. Sherlock’s hard cock juts out in front of him, leaking and almost purple with arousal, his balls already tight against his body. It’s so sensitive that every move hurts yet the cock ring prevents him from ejaculating. Adding to his agony, the plug up his arse makes sitting rather uncomfortable. It's so big that it causes Sherlock's abdominal muscles to cramp. He feels literally stuffed.

But instead of relieving him of the toy, John fetches Sherlock a glass of water first and makes sure he drinks it before pulling him to his feet. Due to the plug, Sherlock can't stand upright and has to walk slightly bend forward. John guides him on shaky legs over to the bed where he's allowed to sit down.

A small whine escapes Sherlock as John gently wraps his hand around his tender cock, loosely weighing it in his palm. Sherlock can feel himself throb painfully against John's skin.

“Poor thing.” John says, a wicked glint in his eyes. He squeezes. Sherlock yelps in shock. John closes his hand only tighter until Sherlock is trembling all over, fisting his hands into the sheets. He's panting hard through his nose in a futile attempt not to scream as tears well up behind is closed eyelids.

“Shall I use the Tiger Balm again?” John asks in a low voice and Sherlock shakes his head frantically as he remembers the last time.

“Then you'll be a good boy and do as you are told, won't you?”

Sherlock hastens to nod in agreement. Anything, he'll do anything John wants if he only stops torturing his cock.

“Look at me. Say it!”

Sherlock forces his eyes open to meet John's.

“Yes, John.” He grits out between clenched teeth.

But his eyes go wide nonetheless when John leans over to reach for the glass still standing on the bedside cabinet, filled with Mark’s by now congealed come mixed with a splash of whisky. John’s leg slides between Sherlock’s in the movement, spreading them, making him groan. At least John removes his hand from his aching cock to hold Sherlock in place by his biceps to prevent him from flinching away.

He sets the glass to Sherlock’s lips with his free hand and says: “Drink.”

Sherlock presses his lips firmly together. No, this is not what he wants. He wants John, not some random stranger. But John came al over that stranger! It's infuriating! What had that obscure cunt ever done to deserve John?

“I said drink.” John growls.

A shudder runs down Sherlock’s spine but he keeps his mouth shut, the viscous mass sloshing against his lips. He knows John won't like this. He knows he'll get punished for this. He yearns for it. For John putting him in his place. For John giving him his undivided attention. He'll show John what he's able to take.

Sherlock can sense John getting angry because he frowns and as takes the glass away, cocking his head characteristically. “You think this will help you?” He asks. “I'm afraid your stubborn behaviour will only add to your humiliation.” John smacks Sherlock's face hard, once, before he spits into the glass and holds it back up to Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock still refuses as a familiar anticipatory tingle lodges deep in his belly. John grabs his hair as he tries to turn away.

“What is it with you tonight?” John hisses. Sherlock glares up at him from his feral eyes. He's enraged, John realises. Very good! His temper seems finally to return.

“Open.Your.Mouth.And.Swallow!”

In response, Sherlock's lips quirk up in an arrogant smile. John slams the glass back down onto the nightstand and jerks Sherlock forwards until he's kneeling up in front of the bed. He can't be allowed to refuse him like this, John reasons, as he slaps Sherlock's face left, right, left, sending his head lolling. He must have bitten his lip because a small rivulet of blood runs down his chin.

“How dare you to disobey me!” John thunders. “You do as you are told!”

“Or what?” Sherlock asks defiantly, his tongue darting out to taste his own blood.

Instead of an answer, John drags him into the bathroom by his hair, on all fours, regardless of Sherlock's screams. He tries to pry John's hands away from his short curls but John only grabs him tighter.

Sherlock skitters over the tiles and crashes into the side of the bathtub. At least he has the presence of mind to wrap his arms around his head to protect it from hitting the floor. He's breathing heavily by now but John doesn't care. Hot white rage is flooding his system. He's in charge here. He feels alive, powerful, certain. It's glorious.

To ascertain his position, John kicks Sherlock in the stomach once, twice, watching as the thin body on the floor curls into itself. Sherlock slings his arms tighter around his midriff and coughs. His eyes are closed. There's blood dripping from his mouth. It starts to look like a crime scene. 

John bends forward and brutally presses Sherlock onto the cold tiles, holding him down until he's pulled the plug from Sherlock's hole. He's gaping.

John stares for a moment before he takes the toilet brush from its stand and pushes it deep inside Sherlock.

“That's the only thing your dirty hole is good for, Sherlock.” He tells him as he starts to move the brush in and out.

Sherlock whimpers as John brutally fucks him with the wiry brush. The bristles scratch at his sensitive insides but John doesn't care, even as the white brush starts to show traces of red.

“You are filthy, Sherlock. I have to clean you out properly. Hand me the Harpic.”

“No, please, John… please, not that.” Sherlock whines, looking up at John with panic in his eyes. He remembers John giving him enemas spiced with chilli oil back in London. It had been extremely painful. He doesn’t dare to imagine how Hydrochloric Acid might feel inside his abused rectum.

But John shows no mercy as he twists the brush deep inside Sherlock’s colon. “Your hole is sleazy, Sherlock. I don’t know how often I pissed into it over the last few weeks. A toilet has to be scrubbed from time to time. For you, that’s now.” 

As Sherlock doesn’t move, John kicks him again, this time just above the swell of his arse, right into his left kidney. Sherlock howls in pain and reaches out to take the toilet cleaner from below the sink, stretching his arm blindly back for John to grab the characteristically curved bottle.

John takes it, pulls the brush from Sherlock’s hole, inserts the bottle’s nozzle instead and squeezes. Thick burning liquid spills inside Sherlock’s bowels and he hisses.

“Let’s clean you out.” John pushes the brush back inside him and sets to work. “That's what dirty whores get when they defy their superiors.”

John doesn’t stop when Sherlock starts crying. He doesn’t stop when he starts to beg, to plead, when he promises to be good, to do as he’s told, becoming more and more incoherent. Spit, snot, blood and tears mix on his face as he looses his composure along with his dignity.

“You had your chance, Sherlock. I was very patient with you. Don’t think I enjoy having to do this to you. But you left me no choice.” It's a lie and they both know it. John loves this.

After a few minutes, John stuffs a towel into Sherlock's mouth to silence his wailing. His rim is bright red by now; his body strains and contorts in pain. The cleaner inside Sherlock’s rectum has started to lather and is spilling out of him, its sharp acerbic smell mixed with the copper scent of blood filling the small bathroom.

Eventually, Sherlock has no tears left to shed. When John tells him to get up on his knees, he does, too weak to put up any resistance despite his trembling legs. John first removes the towel from his mouth before presenting the bloody brush to Sherlock, who knows what is expected of him.

“Thank you.” He whispers, just glad that at least this part of his punishment is over. “Thank you for cleaning me. Please, let me suck the toilet brush.”

John has to twist it a little to fit all of it in Sherlock’s open mouth. Sherlock can taste Harpic, lube and blood as he starts to suck, moaning around the bristles. It's awful and burns down his throat but he knows that he deserves this. He doesn't dare to imagine what might happen if he accidentally throws up. 

John takes a picture of him on his phone, with the toilet brush protruding from his mouth. Sherlock wants to close his eyes but John gives him another kick.

“Smile.” He says, and Sherlock tries as best he can, his reddened eyes looking up at John, trying to convey his gratitude because he's so very good to him despite Sherlock being an insufferable prat.

As John points towards the tub, Sherlock clumsily climbs in, the brush still in his mouth. He has to hold his arse cheeks apart and his hole open for John to insert the shower head to clean him once more, now just with warm water. Sherlock is so loose by now that the valve fits easily inside him. He’s thankful that John had told him to empty himself before he was put into the bag. Therefore, it’s mostly blood, cleaner and a slimy substance that is washed out of him. He has to kneel in it, because John had put the stopper into the drain.

After a few minutes, John quickly removes the shower head and stuffs the plug back in. Water is still sloshing around inside Sherlock. He gasps in pain as the large toy fills his raw colon again, stretching his abused intestines. Soon, the building pressure will have him cramping, he knows that. He’s not sure he’ll be able to take it. But fainting would mean lying in the grimy brew filling the tub.

Eventually, the brush is taken from his mouth. He babbles, thanking John, promising obedience, promising to be good. John stops him by washing his mouth and then forcing him to drown glass after glass of cold water until his belly is visibly swollen.

John massages his tummy for the next half hour, sitting on the rim of the tub. Sherlock is openly crying again as cramps set his body spasming. He needs to empty himself, he’s so full, but the plug prevents it. His bowels still feel on fire. To add to his agony, John strokes his cock from time to time. Due to the cock ring, he’s still so very hard despite the humiliation he has to endure.

“John, I can’t anymore…” Sherlock whispers. “Please…” The brush has torn he corners of his mouth. He looks such a mess that John is almost moved to let him off the hook.

“Don’t lie to me, Sherlock. Look at your cock. Hard and leaking. So don’t tell me this is too much.”

“No, John.” Sherlock casts his eyes down, defeated. Because it must be true, judging by his erection. Obviously, John knows best.

“In fact, I think you might want to prolong this. Must feel amazing, being filled to the brim.”

The skin on Sherlock’s knees and shins has started to peel off by now, the price for sitting in Hydrochloride Acid. He’s so exhausted that he fears to pass out. The cramps are getting worse by the minute as his stomach gurgles loudly. Eventually, he starts throwing up. It’s just water and bile but the effort it takes to bring it up enhances the pressure on his bowels, sharply heightening the ache with every wave of nausea. Sherlock tries to keep it down, pressing a trembling hand to his mouth, until the watery phlegm forcefully erupts out of him, seeping between his fingers, dripping down into the slurry he's forced to kneel in. He coughs and splutters, mortified by his failing body.

John watches him suffer, a grim smile on his face. He's hard again.

When Sherlock finally collapses and his shivering body sinks forward John massages his strained back. Sherlock's balancing his weight onto his partly submerged forearms, his face just inches away from the rank surface of the gunk he's forced to crouch in. As he's panting uncontrollably, the dirty water ripples beneath his incoherently mumbling mouth. He seems talking more to himself than to John while violent sobs shake his wrecked body.

Sherlock's completely undone.

“Relax.” John tells him softly, brushing his hair back that's almost dipping into the filthy swill. As he pulls the plug free, a gush of dirty water mixed with blood and mucus rushes from Sherlock's rectum. He cries out in pain and his hands slip on the ceramic, scrambling in the mucky sludge. His head hangs low between his shoulders. John touches his hip and tries to make him sit up, staring down at the destruction he's caused.

Sherlock's hole is completely wrecked and bleeding. The prolapse is bright red and looks raw and sore. The rectal mucosa is torn by the look of it. John assumes deep lacerations to the muscles around Sherlock's sphincter but he has to check under better light to be sure.

Sherlock had been getting a bit too loose for his liking anyway. Those huge plugs they'd been using had stretched tremendously, almost past endurance. It had looked gorgeous but the friction John so loved had been gone. Time to tighten Sherlock's anus. John's a surgeon after all.

For now, however, Sherlock needs urgent aftercare. John tells him to pull the stopper out. Sherlock's shaking hands fumble a little in the muddy water before he succeeds and the dirt and grime run down the drain.

John showers Sherlock thoroughly while he squats in the bath tub, arms wrapped around his lean torso. He's allowed to take a handful of Ibuprofen afterwards before John applies a cold compress to his nether regions. With that in place, he very thoroughly brushes Sherlock's teeth and rinses his mouth. Finally, he uses loads of lube to remove the cock ring. Sherlock whimpers as the blood flow to his penis and balls is restored. His painful erection flags quickly.

Eventually, John picks Sherlock up and carries him over to the bed where he has spread some clean towels. Sherlock is boneless, his head resting against John's shoulder, eyes closed. His eyelids shimmer as if made of mother-of-pearl but there are dark circles below them. Sherlock's cheeks are hollow, but his breathing is even. John has no idea how late it is.

Sherlock sighs and opens his bleary eyes as John sets him down onto the mattress.

“There's something you promised me.” John reminds him, and Sherlock nods. John takes the abandoned glass into his left hand, takes his own cock in his right and strokes himself a few times. It doesn't take long for him to add a small amount of come to the residue he's caught before, mixing his fluids with Mark's. Afterwards, he offers it to Sherlock.

This time, Sherlock opens willingly and swallows, gulping down the cooling ejaculate, his throat contracting beneath his skin as muscles work his deglutition reflex.

“That wasn't so difficult, was it?” John says when the glass is finally empty. Sherlock doesn't meet his eyes.

“You didn’t like it when I came all over Mark.” John says, brushing his thump over Sherlock’s swollen, wet lips.

Sherlock shakes his head. He’s not in the mood to respond. But John forces him to when asking: “Why?”

Sherlock shrugs but moves closer, signalling that he’s still deep in subspace. He doesn’t want to explain. He wants to be tied up and drifting. He wants John to decide, to take action, to show him what he needs, to punish him when he disobeys him. Life can be so easy. Analysing his emotional reactions seems way too complicated right now.

But John is determined. “Don’t give me that, Sherlock. I could see that you got angry when he sucked me off. Tell me why.” John demands.

“Because…” Sherlock coughs. His jaw hurts and his throat feels like sandpaper. “Because that’s what I’m here for. That’s for me.” Sherlock mumbles, staring at the duvet.

“And when I deny it to you?”

“It… doesn’t feel right.” Sherlock licks his chafed lower lip. He feels so tired. Everything hurts.

John looks at him. “What makes you think that a tart like you has any say in how I get off and with whom?” He asks, his voice simultaneously warm and full of steel. His friendly tone combined with the degrading slur sends a shiver down Sherlock’s spine. He doesn’t dare to look at John and stays quiet, keeping his eyes down.

“I asked you something.” John’s tone is getting sharper.

“I… I don’t… It’s just…” Sherlock stammers. He doesn’t want to have this conversation right now. He doesn’t want to have any conversation. He wants to rest, oblivious to all these confusing power struggles. Tears of frustration well up in his eyes.

John takes his chin between thumb and forefinger before he can wipe them away. Sherlock feels unmoored, reeling, and is unable to hide his disturbed state as John stares right into his eyes, deep down into his soul.

“I don’t like what is happening to you, Sherlock. The things you let me do to you, without complaining. This is not who you are.”

Sherlock wants to plead, wants to throw himself at John’s feet and his mercy, but he’s frozen, pinned down under John’s gaze.

“I thought I was losing you.” John whispers. “And I won't allow that. I don’t want a complaisant fuckdoll. I want _you_. But you start to disappear.”

Tears now openly run down Sherlock’s face. “I don’t know what’s happening either, John.” He gasps.

“Perhaps it’s all been too much. Us. Your brother, what he did to you, your flight, now this… new identities, us roaming Europe with no plan or destination. Perhaps I pushed you too far.” John can hear the uncertainty creep into his voice. He’s the one supposed to lead here, but at the moment he’s unsure how to proceed. The night takes its toll on him as well. John didn't like Sherlock becoming a pliant fuckboy, but his own reaction to Sherlock showing defiance tonight frightens him as well. 

They have to stop this. It will destroy them both.

As if Sherlock can read his thoughts – and perhaps he can – he sits up a little, wincing. “No. Please, no…” Sherlock is whispering, like a mantra. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

John looks over at his lover, reduced to a sobbing mess, possessed by an ache he can't sooth.

“How do you feel?” He asks, and Sherlock finally breaks.

“I'm... I don't want to feel anything. John. I want the pain to drown out everything else. I want to... _disappear_.” His voice is devoid of any emotion.

John swallows before very gently easing Sherlock onto his stomach, carefully taking him into his arms, trying to cause as little discomfort as possible.

“This has gone too far.” He says. “We should start over again. Tomorrow.” He kneads Sherlock's lower back with his warm hands and Sherlock sighs but he still shivers a little. John doesn't even undress before sneaking under the covers, holding Sherlock tight as they fall asleep together, exhausted both physically and mentally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, a day late but I had lots on my plate last week...


	7. Berlin 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A kind of interlude: The morning after, there are still many issues unaddressed. But they are moving on.

The next day, they linger in bed, just kissing, touching. Sherlock is unusually clingy, his sore body in dire need of affection John quite willingly supplies. As his hands stroke over Sherlock's bruises from last night, he swallows hard. There's a large purple mark on Sherlock's waist, his knees are dotted a greenish yellow and his face is still a little puffy from all the crying and slapping.

“Are we actually cuddling?” John asks amused, and Sherlock shudders in disgust but moves even closer, resting his head on John's chest, his fingers painting invisible patterns on his abdomen until John can't suppress a giggle.

“Sherlock, stop that!” He shrieks, swatting Sherlock's long fingers away. “How do you feel?” He asks, turning serious.

Sherlock waits a moment before answering, taking stock of the state of his body. “My anus still hurts, as do my legs and my stomach. I also have a massive headache.” He squints while looking up at John.

It's time, John knows. “Let me have a look at you.” He sits up, carefully manoeuvring Sherlock onto his stomach.

“Spread your legs.” Sherlock does and John gently pries his arse cheeks apart. As he peels the by now almost dry flannel away that he'd placed there last night as a cold compress, he sees that Sherlock's hole is still bright red, swollen yet slack. At least he's stopped bleeding.

“I have to tend to this, Sherlock. Stay like this, please, I'll be right back.” Sherlock rests his left cheek on his folded arms and watches John as he walks back into the bathroom to get their first aid kit (luckily, due to the nature of their relationship and John being a doctor, it's always well stocked). When John returns, he also carries new, clean towels.

First, he offers Sherlock a spoonful of Tramadol to get him to relax. Sherlock swallows it without hesitation.

“Okay, now I'm going to inject some Lidocaine into you perineum and sphincter. That might hurt a little.”

John pulls on latex gloves and sets to work. Sherlock hisses and shudders visibly as the needle breaks his sensitive skin but stays in place. He needs three injections until John's sure that he won't hurt Sherlock more than necessary. While he waits until the local anaesthesia takes hold, he gets Sherlock a glass of water that he greedily drowns.

It takes fifteen stitches to repair the damage John had inflicted on Sherlock's rectum. There's some deep tearing as well as only superficial fissures. John's reminded of the last time he'd had to do this, after Mycroft had allowed his friends to violate his brother. It's unsettling to John that he hadn't been better than the man they are actually on the run from.

With every suture he ties off John silently promises himself and Sherlock that this will never happen again. He has to be better if he wants to keep Sherlock; at least if he wants to keep a somewhat healthy and sane Sherlock who stays with him willingly. Love conquers all they say... well, it shouldn't. If John can't control his destructive impulses, Sherlock shouldn't stay with him. It would probably kill them both if he did.

And somehow, John thinks, Sherlock wouldn't be averse to such an end either...

When he's finally done, John dabs Sherlock's now much tighter hole with antiseptic before placing another cool aid pack from the fridge over the fresh sutures. To cover the stitches, he puts a clean, soft towel between Sherlock's legs. 

Sherlock seems very drowsy from the medication and probably from the shock of John operating at those most intimate parts. His eyes keep falling shut. John tenderly strokes his curls and assures him that everything will be alright as Sherlock drifts off into an exhausted slumber.

He wakes again in the early hours of the afternoon. John has cleaned up a bit before he also crawled back into bed, watching Sherlock sleep while pretending to read some mindless novel.

“Hey, there you are. Back with the living.” John smiles down at his lover, who's still sleep-mussed and seems a little confused. “I patched you up, but we'll have to go slow for a few days. You better stay in bed today.”

Sherlock shuffles a little closer. His face contorts in discomfort as he moves.

“Didn't you hear me? Careful.” John sighs and rolls over until he can take Sherlock in his arms, burying his nose in those soft, silky curls. They stay like this for a few minutes, Sherlock visibly hovering in a state between sleep and full awareness, relishing John's warmth and the comfort his sturdy body provides. They both smile, Sherlock content, John affectionate.

“Let's get some breakfast. Well, food at least.” John suggests some time later, glancing at the clock on the nightstand, but Sherlock doesn't move.

“Not hungry.” He mutters against John's breastbone.

“You need to eat.” John pokes him in his all too visible ribs. “Something substantial. Eggs. Bacon. Do we have anything in?”

“They don't have proper food here anyway. Just this dark bread that reminds me of bricks, and sausages, and Müsli...” Sherlock sounds truly disgusted as he names what to him are German culinary atrocities.

“Then I think we should make plans to travel somewhere more to your tastes. After we've eaten.”

John wiggles out from under Sherlock and walks into the kitchen, leaving his still drowsy lover sulking in the bedroom.

As expected, their fridge is almost empty. There are some strawberries, plain Greek yoghurt, a bottle of white wine and leftover roasted chicken. 

“We are out of coffee. And Milk. And almost everything else!” John shouts over into the bedroom from which only emanates a long-suffering sigh in return.

Well, improvise, Watson. Make do. Sherlock needs to eat, especially after last night and weeks on nothing else than nutrient gels and protein shakes. Otherwise he might pass out during a session due to low blood sugar.

As it's already afternoon, John opens the wine, sloshes half of it into a pan and throws the chicken leftover into it as well before heating it. From what's left in the bottle, he pours himself a generous glass that he empties while stirring the meat. On his empty stomach he soon starts to feel a little tipsy. He takes it as his reward for dragging his body out of their warm bend. When the alcohol in the pan has been reduced to a thick gravy, he cuts the strawberries in half, puts them in a bowl and pours the yoghurt over it.

Looking down at his creation, a devilish leer spreads on his face. Perhaps it's the wine that supplies the lewd idea. He leaves the chicken simmering on the stove and walks back into the bedroom, taking the bowl of fruit with him.

“I think I had an idea how to get you to eat.” John grins down at Sherlock who just huffs in indignation. That is, until John takes his boxers off and kneels next to Sherlock's head on the bed.

“Take the bowl.” John presses it into Sherlock's hands. It now sits between them on the mattress. John takes his already stiffening cock in hand and starts to fist it languidly while he watches Sherlock's eyes go wide.

“Now then, as you told me last night, you are rather keen to suck me off. Isn't that right, Sherlock?”

Sherlock just nods. His blown pupils try to focus as he watches John touch himself. When he starts to hump the bedding, however, John puts a hand on his hip to still him.

“Don't. You'll tear the stitches.”

Sherlock whimpers both in frustration and pain. John squeezes his waist to get his attention.

“Okay, let me feed you my come. Would you like that?” John asks, his voice gone rough.

Sherlock nods again, his gaze now glued to John's hard, leaking cock. When John's hand speeds up all air leaves Sherlock's lungs in one gush as if he'd been punched in the guts.

“Hold onto that bowl, will you.” John tells him through gritted teeth, and Sherlock clings to the china as if it's a life-raft.

John's breathing is becoming laboured. His foreskin glides back from the wet glans with every pull of his hand, making an obscene, slapping sound. On the upstroke, he twists his fingers ever so slightly, brushing his thumb over the glistening slit.

“Talk to me, Sherlock. Sing for your supper.” John gasps, rocking eagerly into his fist, just inches away from Sherlock's flushed face, just out of reach for his mouth but close enough to smell him.

“God, John, please... I want to taste you. So badly. I need your come, please, feed it to me. I love the taste. Please...Nothing tastes as good as you. I want to swallow it all. Come into my mouth, all over my lips and tongue. Please. Give it to me... I won't spill a drop.” Sherlock stammers, his voice deep and needy as he cheers John on.

It doesn't take long. A few moments later, John tenses and his stomach muscles ripple before thick streaks of come shoot from his cock, hitting the strawberry-yoghurt mix in the bowl, adding a filthy coating. They both stare onto the mess; Sherlock licks his lips.

When he's got his breath back, John quickly gets up and takes the bowl from Sherlock's clenched fingers.

“Hmmm,” John hums, offering the dish up to Sherlock. “This looks repugnant. I can hardly see the strawberries anymore. Everything's covered in goo.” He grins. “Would you like me to feed you breakfast now?”

“Yes, John, please...” Sherlock is suddenly very interested.

John pulls his pants up before he starts to feed Sherlock strawberries dipped in yoghurt and his come. As John spears each fruit onto a fork, he watches Sherlock greedily open his mouth to receive his breakfast. His full lips wrap around the ripe fruits, sucking the coating off of them before slowly chewing and swallowing. 

He visibly loves the taste. It's depraved to crave being treated like this, but Sherlock doesn't care. He savours every bite offered as if it's the most sophisticated meal ever served.

“Good?” John asks, brushing his thumb over Sherlock's chin. Sherlock's tongue darts out to lick his glistening lips.

“Yes. It's delicious.” He sighs with pleasure before opening up for more.

It takes almost fifteen minutes before the bowl is empty.

“Breakfast of champions.” John smiles and bows don to kiss Sherlock, soft yet deep. Then he gets up to see to the chicken.

\----------

In the evening, John takes a shower, before he runs Sherlock a lukewarm bath, soaping his back with a soft loofah sponge. Eventually, all remnants of last night are gone from both their bodies.

“So, were do you want to go? I think some change of air would do us good.” John states when they are back in the bedroom and he's getting dressed in some comfy clothes while Sherlock lounges naked on the bed.

“Italy.” He replies. “Florence.” His voice takes on a dreamy tone.

“Never been.” John confesses.

“It's divine. The most beautiful city you'll ever see.”

“Is that so? I thought that was London?” John asks, pulling a grey sweatshirt over his head. Sherlock stares at him, a little unfocused, before he shakes his head as if to come back to his senses.

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“About last night...”

John stills.

“Yes?”

“I'm not... god, this is difficult.” He sounds so annoyed that John can't suppress a soft smile.

“Just say it.” Yet John doesn't feel as calm as he pretends. In fact, an ice-cold fear spreads in his stomach. Sherlock never instigates such talks. Relationship-talks.

“I... I just want to tell you that... it's all fine.” Sherlock finishes, holding his gaze. “It's all fine.” He repeats. Sherlock never repeats himself.

John nods. He's not sure what to make of this.

“Can I show you what I want?” Sherlock asks into the stretching silence, sounding a little uncertain.

John nods. “Sure.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, gets up and limps over to their large wardrobe. John watches him, sitting down onto the bed. He sees Sherlock fetch his leather belt.

“Here. Take it.” Sherlock almost pushes the belt at John. “Use it.”

Sherlock is naked and flushed, his cock already hardening, his pale skin still a little blotchy from the bath. He looks determined.

“I need it. I need you.” He says fiercely, his face serious. “Help me with this, John.”

John takes the belt and runs it between his fingers, smooth leather, well worn. He wraps one end around his fist and pulls it tight with the other.

“Get back on the bed.” Sherlock swallows once before lying down onto his stomach, hands grabbing the headboard, legs slightly spread. 

“So, you think you need a good, hard thrashing?” John asks.

“Yes, John.”

“To bring you back to your senses?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock breathes.

“I don't think that's a very good idea.”

Silence.

“Please...” Sherlock whimpers into the pillow.

“No, Sherlock. You are hurt. I'm not doing this tonight.”

“John...” Sherlock whines, balling his hands into fists while holding onto the bed-frame.

John shakes his head and sighs. “You like that, me hurting you?”

Sherlock nods.

“I like it, too. You know that. But I'm not flogging you after I'd stitched you up just hours earlier. We have to be a bit more careful.”

Sherlock huffs. How is it possible to convey so much scorn with just a little noise?

“Sherlock, look at me.” Sherlock reluctantly turns his face over to where John is sitting at the end of the bed.

“If you want, there are other things we can do.” John leans over.

“What other things?” It's barely a whisper.

John quickly slings the belt around Sherlock's throat and pulls it tight, never breaking eye contact. Sherlock makes a surprised, strangled sound and his hands clench so hard that his knuckles turn white.

They stay like this for a few seconds, unmoving, their panting filling the room, 

John seems to wait for something, a sign that this is okay. When Sherlock blinks, he steadily pulls the belt a little tighter until Sherlock starts to see black dots dancing before his eyes as his trachea is continuously compressed. His hands and feet start to twitch. His face feels strangely hot and swollen. His grunts turn into raw croaks before there's no sound at all.

“Beautiful.” John whispers above his left cheek. “So fucking beautiful.” Sherlock baths in his praise, feeling very much alive listening to his own blood ringing in his ears until everything goes dark.

When he comes round again, he's in John's arms, who struggles to pull him upright. Something sticky cools on his back and the belt is still loosely wrapped around his throat. Sherlock tries to entangle himself from John, who only hugs him tighter, shushing his weak protests with low words mumbled into his ear.

“Let me… so lovely, Sherlock, gorgeous. You are amazing. Good, look at you. You held on for so long until you finally passed out. I literally saw your eyes roll back.” He whispers, pressing open mouthed kisses down the side of Sherlock’s aching neck.

Sherlock nods, dazed, and feels something wet run down his cheeks. He only realises he's crying as he wipes away his tears, staring at his damp fingers.

“Shh, love.” John mumbles against his temple. “Don't cry. Tell me about Florence instead.”

Sherlock has to take a deep breath.

“It's... like a dream. The David... and with... beautiful parks and gardens...” Sherlock tries to suppress his sobs, leaning his thin, trembling frame against John's reliable, solid body, giving in to being held.

“Tell me more.” John smiles as he gently lowers Sherlock down into their rumpled sheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter features kinda kinky outdoor sex. The prompt was 'gardening'.


	8. Florence 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock go to Florence. There, they engage in their very own form of gardening...

The Giardino de Boboli, located behind the Palazzo Pitti overlooking Florence, once belonged to the Medici family, which could have been a very interesting topic of historical discourse; only, right now, Sherlock has no mental capacity to spare thinking about the ancient clan from which Popes and Dukes have arisen.

They'd entered the vast gardens an hour before closing time, strolling south and then west, down the Viotollone, lined with laurel hedges and old cypress trees. But instead of proceeding towards the Isolotto as most tourist did, John had steered them into the wilderness that stretched to the left of the broad walkway.

This part of the park wasn't overcrowded with visitors. Here could still be found the remnants of older gardens: lemon, quince or almond trees but also cork trees and chestnuts as well as herbs from a medicine or kitchen garden now long overgrown.

It is quiet under the old trees and hedges, forming dense thickets, offering secluded hiding places. Benches and statues are scattered around the odd small pond. Sherlock and John end up in some kind of evergreen grove with an old marble settee in the middle. Through the trees, Sherlock spots some kind of small house that resembles a shed but is elaborately decorated with white stucco vine.

They sit down on the bench as the sun starts to set. Sherlock is aware that they are staying past closing time, and an excited tingle runs down his spine. No one will find them here, that he's sure of. They are obscured from view from the main paths. Someone would have to be specifically looking for intruders to stumble upon them and Sherlock doubts that the Italian park guards will bother.

It's still warm when the sun has set, bathing the garden in an almost violet glow. The city beneath them emanates orange light, bright enough to illuminate the grove, yet the tree branches swaying in the breeze suddenly look like thin arms, reaching out. The sudden eerie silence is filled with the sounds of the night: an owl howling, cicadas chirping, the call of a the toads living in the ponds... It rustled and crackles below the hedges and shrubberies as the nightly predators came out to hunt. Sherlock smiles. He likes the idea of slaughter all around them, invisible to the human eye like so many other things ordinary people miss.

John has brought a backpack with him that he opens after a look at his watch. It must be around seven by now. The park closed at six thirty. Finally, they are ready to begin.

They had arrived in Florence yesterday. While Sherlock had visited the Uffici today, John had gone shopping. Sherlock had been thrilled all day imagining what John might have bought and how he intended his purchases to use. They had left most of their gear in Berlin, wanting a fresh start. Sherlock imagines that Judith might get a little shock when she opens her wardrobe... But as they had paid for the damage to some of her furnishings, he didn't have a guilty conscious.

“Take your clothes off, all of them.” John tells him now, bringing him back to the present as he unpacks a few neat bundles of dark rope. Sherlock obeys quietly, folding his linen trousers and light cotton shirt before placing them neatly on the bench.

When he stands nude in front of John a nod of his head indicates for Sherlock to move over to a single tall chestnut tree.

The earth feels warm and soft under Sherlock's bare feet. As it's May, the trees are a bright, rich green. In this remote grove the ground is covered in a thin layer of brown cypress leaves from the previous winter, but they are by now softened and don't sting, only emanate a scent that reminds Sherlock vaguely of Christmas.

John kisses him gently, standing beneath a thick, solid branch of the chestnut, before he takes Sherlock's left wrist and wraps the smooth hemp rope around it several times. With a skilful toss, John throws the rope over the branch afterwards, pulls it tight and ties its other end around Sherlock's right wrist. Sherlock still has both feet firmly on the ground, approximately twenty inches away from the tree trunk.

That is, until John crouches down in front of him and wraps another rope around his left ankle. Then he pulls it back, so that Sherlock is just balancing on his right foot, wrapping the rope a few times around the tree trunk.

“Lift your right foot.” 

Sherlock does. John pulls his right foot back until it almost touches the tree, then wraps the end of the rope around the ankle. Sherlock's now hanging in the air, just held by the ropes. Most of his weight is suspended from his arms. 

Sherlock is swaying slightly, his spine arched. His cock has started to fill, jutting half-hard out in front of him. The muscles in his lean arms and legs are twitching as they have to support his weight now. It's not painful – not yet – but dangling in mid-air a few feet above the ground is a rather disconcerting feeling nonetheless.

“Okay?” John asks, looking at his finished ropework.

“Yes.” Sherlock reassures him. It's too dark for him to see John's expression, but he thinks he smirks.

“You know, mother nature is rather generous in providing interesting stimulants. Well, of course you know that. But do you have first hand experience, I wonder? Let's see. I'll be right back.”

John walks off into the gloom but doesn't go far. Sherlock can hear him. Should an emergency arise, he could call out and John would be back with him in no time. Hanging naked from a tree out in the open where – at least theoretically – anyone could stumble upon him both arouses and scares Sherlock.

A few minutes later, John comes back. He's wearing snug gardening gloves by now and seems to have gathered an array of plants which he lays down next to the tree. As it is getting really dark by now, he fetches his backpack and retrieves a portable LED camping light. It's very bright and casts the scenery in sharp, edgy shadows amid pools of whiteness. Almost instantly, moths start to circle the tree.

Another item John retrieves from his backpack is a black silk scarf that he slings around Sherlock's head as a blindfold.

“Let me surprise you.” John whispers, and Sherlock nods, sinking deeper into subspace.

His current position presses his buttock together. But now John parts his cheeks and puts something roundish between them, just over his hole. It's spiky. Sherlock huffs.

“Do you know what this is?” John asks, curious.

“Sweet chestnut.” Sherlock answers a little breathless.

“Very good.” John squeezes his arse cheek, rubs them together, and Sherlock moans in pain and pleasure. The thorns dig into his sensitive skin while stimulating all the nerve endings located at his entrance.

“God, you have a lovely arse.” John sighs as his hands leave Sherlock's buttocks. “Don't drop those chestnuts.”

Sherlock clenches his buttocks together, trying to hold the thorny capsules in place.

The next sound he hears is a sharp hiss in the air. “I want to pay your beautiful arse some attention.” John explains, just before the first blow hits Sherlock's clenched cheeks. Now it's his turn to hiss.

John seems to be using a thin twig, nothing special, but after a few strokes Sherlock's arse starts to sting nonetheless. As he has to tense his muscles to keep the chestnuts in place, his arse is hard like marble, and there's only a thin layer of skin to cushion John's blows.

After fifteen strikes, John stops. Sherlock is by now panting heavily, biting his lips so as not to cry out and attract attention.

“You are doing very well, Sherlock. Let's see if my next move can excite you a bit more.”

Something thorny is slowly wound around his legs, first around his left calve up to mid-thigh, then around the right. Sherlock gasps out in shock.

“Any idea what I'm using now?” John asks.

Sherlock struggles in his bounds. His skin burns from the stings and he has trouble concentrating. The thorns feel longish. He takes a few deep breaths and suddenly it hits him. There's a sour smell in the air, almost like... semen? But John didn't come, and neither did he. Ah, clever, very clever...

“Barberry.” He pants.

“You are rather good at this, aren't you?” John sounds equally impressed and amused. Sherlock can feel small rivulets of blood run down his legs. He tries to stay as still as possible to minimise the sting. But it's not easy as his lower body feels like it's on fire right up to his arse.

“Please keep very still now, Sherlock, or you'll ruin your beautiful face.”

Sherlock can do nothing but breathe and lock his muscles.

“Hold your head up.”

He does, though it's strenuous. His head threatens to drop forward as his neck, arms and shoulders start to hurt with the strain they are under.

Meanwhile, John is carefully wrapping a thin branch around his face and throat. It doesn't touch his skin, but only just. “This is a Raspberry branch.” John explains. “Don't twitch, or the thorns will scratch you face.”

As Sherlock swallows convulsively, he can feel the sharp thorns scrape his throat.

“You look like a forest spirit.” John tells him, taking a step back. “Like a creature out of a fairytale. Fantastic.”

When Sherlock tries to lick his dry lips, his tongue is caught on a spike. He tastes blood.

Suddenly, he can feel the rough fabric of John's glove on his neglected cock. He's gone soft, but now his shaft is rapidly swelling, filling with blood.

As he starts to rock in his bounds, the thorny branches around his body seem to contract, slicing his skin open. He gasps in pain, but John doesn't stop. He only removes his hand when Sherlock's buttocks start to quiver. The chestnuts fall to the ground.

Sherlock whimpers. He knows this shouldn't have happened.

“Oh, Sherlock. What did I tell you? Now I have to punish you in earnest.”

John takes something from his backpack and crouches down in front Sherlock's suspended body. Sherlock can hear him fumble a little and braces himself for what's to come.

John touches his nipples, and fastens something to his left nipple ring. A piece of twine? Yes, it must be, for as John repeats whatever he's doing on Sherlock's right nipple, there's suddenly a heavy weight attached to the rings.

“A stone.” John tells him, and he must have given the rock a little push, for the pull and ache intensifies. Sherlock moans.

John moves beneath him, and then his hands touch Sherlock's balls.

“Please... no.” Sherlock begs, tearing his lips open at the thorny raspberry branch, but John doesn't stop. He winds some twine around his bollocks as well, before Sherlock feels a rather heavy tug. It must be a large stone that's swinging between Sherlock's legs, and the stretch to his balls shoots white hot pain through his body.

Sherlock groans and struggles against the rope, tearing his skin further. “Please... please, John. I can't...”

“Does it hurt? It looks rather painful.” Sherlock more senses bright flashes of light. John is taking photos of him in his agony on his phone.

“Yes, it hurts... it burns... please, please stop.” Sherlock is almost sobbing.

“Ah, but we are not done yet, Sherlock. First I want to get you off.”

Sherlock shudders. He's not sure he'll be able to come, not with his nipples and balls stretched painfully and his extremities covered in prickly branches.

Suddenly, John's hand is on his cock, but – oh fuck – what is this? It starts with a tingle that quickly becomes a burn. It feels like a bunch of ants have decided to attack his shaft. Sherlock feels some sort of leaves that John must be holding in his gloved fist while stroking Sherlock... are those stinging nettles?

“Oh god!” Sherlock groans. It truly stings. The sensation is enhanced by increased blood flow due to the manual stimulation. Beyond the prickling burn it is not entirely unpleasant...

“How does it feel?” John asks.

“Oh... it hurts... but it's also... quite intense.” Sherlock pants, trying to keep breathing. John rubs him a little faster, heightening both pleasure and pain. Meanwhile, the index finger of his free hand gently strokes Sherlock's sore hole, not pushing in, just teasing and circling. Sherlock is torn between anguish and delight. “Please...,” he gasps, not sure what exactly he's asking for.

After a few minutes, however, the trichomes are spent, having released all their histamine into Sherlock's most sensitive parts. Now it's just the friction of the leaves, combined with the raw surface of the gardening glove, rubbing his cock. And despite his abused body, Sherlock feels his orgasm building.

So must John, because he suddenly removes his hand from Sherlock's cock and just pets his twitching arsehole.

Sherlock's whole body undulates and he moans loudly, both in anticipation and frustration. He'd been so close...

“Not yet.” John tells him, and Sherlock huffs in disappointment.

For the next ten minutes, John just leaves him hanging from the tree. Sherlock wallows in the different sensations his body is experiencing – the stinging, the burning, the stretch and pull at his extremities – while John, by the sound of it, takes a sip of water before wandering off again.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asks, panic rising inside him as he hears John walk away, his movements betrayed by cracking twigs and the rustle of leaves.

“Not far.” John answers, but he sounds already some distance away. Sherlock tries to stay calm. John won't leave him like this till the morning, for park guards, gardeners or tourists to find. Or would he?

The silence of the evening is broken by the sound of splintering wood, echoing uncharacteristically loud in the still, warm air. It takes a moment before Sherlock figures out that John must have broken into the small house he'd seen through the hedges. What is it? A gardener's lodge? Some sort of shed?

Eventually, John returns. He walks slower, which means he's carrying something. Sherlock can hear him put his load down onto the ground next to him. Another item he leans against the tree.

“I'm afraid we'll have to improvise a bit. But I found some interesting stuff. I promise you a surprise.”

Cold metal teeth scrape down Sherlock's back. A small cultivator with three tines that make Sherlock's skin tingle. John doesn't press hard enough to tear his back open, but Sherlock is sure that the tool leaves angry red marks.

“Lovely. Your back is covered in welts.” John whispers into his ear as he eventually puts the cultivator down. Sherlock's skin throbs. He can feel his swollen flesh, hot and tense, straining over his aching muscles.

Next, John pays attention to Sherlock's front. A hand brush strokes over Sherlock's stretched nipples, again and again, more tickling than hurting. Sherlock shivers. John moves lower, brushing the broom over Sherlock's cock. It's scratchy, but it doesn't feel too bad, so Sherlock carefully ruts against the coarse hairs.

“What an eager slut you are, even now.”

Sherlock hums in agreement.

Suddenly, the contact is gone again. Sherlock hears a blister packet getting torn. Why is John using a condom? They never use condoms.

He gets the answer thirty seconds later. John steps behind him and Sherlock hears the sound of metal scraping against wood. Something solid presses against Sherlock's entrance, very hard but slim and covered in a wet sheathing. Sherlock has no idea what is happening until he's breached, a firm rod pressing relentlessly inside him.

“I found this hoe in the shed and thought I use it to built my own fucking machine.” John says, his voice low and sultry. He's standing between Sherlock's spread legs and the tree trunk. As he pulls Sherlock's suspended body back, the rounded wooden handle of the hoe slides deep inside Sherlock's hole, brushing over his prostate. He moans despite the pain from the thorny branches wound around his legs and head constricting with the movement. The stones attached to his nipples and balls start swinging, and Sherlock's whole body lights up in pain, a white hot bolt shooting through his abused limbs.

Yet he sighs with pleasure when John pushes him forward again and slowly starts to fuck his suspended, pliant body on the stiff stick of the gardening tool.

“Take it. Deep.” John groans.

Sherlock does. It's slim, but very long and solid, reaching hidden places deep inside Sherlock's rectum. After a few thrusts, he's already panting hard, begging for more. John speeds up, rocking Sherlock faster, back and fourth, back and fourth, until Sherlock comes with a surprised shout, spurting white come onto the dark earth. John just holds his hips steady, watching his body spasm and jerk in his bounds.

Thankfully, John had also found some pruners with which he now quickly cuts the branches wrapped around Sherlock's head and legs. There surely are some scratches on his face, and his legs hurt rather badly, but right now, the endorphins flooding his bloodstream give Sherlock a natural high, suppressing the pain.

But when John removes the weight and twine from Sherlock's balls, his shrill scream breaks the peaceful quiet of the darkened park. An bird flies up nearby, startled. Sherlock whines, tears shooting up into his still blindfolded eyes.

“Shut up, will you. No need to scream like that.”

“If hurts.” Sherlock hisses through gritted teeth as he tries to get his breath back under control.

“Is that so? Wait until I have untied you. I have a nice surprise for your walk home.”

John first undoes Sherlock's feet so that he can stand on shaking legs while he unties his arms. When released, his arms and shoulder ache rather badly. His back also complains. John slings an arm around his waist and supports him as they both hobble back to the bench. The cool marble feels lovely against Sherlock's abused arse.

John lets Sherlock rest for a moment while he gets the camping light and his backpack. Sitting next to Sherlock, he then disinfects the cuts and rubs soothing lotion onto Sherlock's legs, groin and face. Sherlock revels in the touch and lets the cool night air wash over him. When John's finished, he urges Sherlock to drink some water.

“Let's go back to the hotel now. I think you should take a hot bath and lie down for a bit.” John offers, and Sherlock nods. He feels wide awake, but his body is exhausted.

“You said you had one last surprise for me tonight.” He asks, sounding a bit drowsy. This will soon change, however. As he puts his pants back on, John stops him before he steps into his trousers.

“Here, let me put these into your boxers. They'll make for a nice distraction on the walk back...” John shows Sherlock a handful of burdocks, some still with their violet blossoms. He pulls Sherlock's waistband back and unceremoniously drops them in his pants.

“Go on, get dressed, I want to get home.” John smiles darkly as Sherlock gasps in shock.

The walk back to their hotel takes almost an hour. Sherlock has to go slow, and still the burdocks chafe and scratch his penis, balls and even slide back between his cheeks. It's agonising. He moves with a rolling gait like a sailor, but event hat doesn't bring him much relieve. He's almost in tears when they arrive at their Pensione, his face reddened, his shirt sweaty and clinging to his back.

John doesn't allow Sherlock to remove his clothes before he's sucked him off on their large double bed. He doesn't care that Sherlock is sobbing, choking around his thick shaft. He even has to palm himself in his pants until John finally comes. Sherlock slurps his load down greedily, John's viscous release soothing his raw throat.

“Undress, I run you that bath.” John whispers, squeezing Sherlock's sore groin one last time. “The pleasures mother nature offers...”

Sherlock's smile is pained and a little forced.


	9. Florence 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are making out on a hot day in Florence.

It is too hot to be outside. Despite, Sherlock's worn out. After their night in the Giardino, John had made him come numerous times over the past two days, keeping him literally chained to the bed with handcuffs, naked.

John had watched the scratches and bruises fade on Sherlock's body while he played with him. He'd stroked Sherlock's cock whenever he'd felt like it, making him gasp and shudder, sweat glistening on his pale skin.

There's a bullet vibrator up Sherlock's arse, keeping him aroused and semi-erect all the time, wet and leaking. Yet it's the only penetration he's received since having been fucked by the hoe (no pun intended). John just plays with his hole, not even fingering him. He liked Sherlock's cunt all right, but prefers a tight arsehole. 

Sherlock had been too loose after Berlin due to the enormous toys they'd used back there. It had been quite the experience for both of them but in the end John had decided against them. It's true, he loves fisting Sherlock – the noises he makes when he thinks he's unable to take it, the triumphant feeling when John overpowers him, the euphoria when Sherlock surrenders and lets John have his way, the tight hug of Sherlock's rim around John's wrist – but John, as a doctor, also knows about the concomitant effects of constant distension. As tempting as the idea of being able to bend Sherlock over anytime anywhere and just push inside him is - the image of Sherlock in nappies does nothing for John. 

Therefore, he'd refrained from putting anything big up Sherlock's arse after stitching him up back in Berlin, allowing his used hole to heal and shrink back into the tight ring of pink muscle it used to be. Now, even the small vibrator buzzing inside Sherlock is driving him insane, rubbing constantly against his prostate. He's unable to do anything about it, because John has his hands cuffed, attached with a short metal chain to the headboard behind him.

When John is not jerking him off Sherlock turns onto his stomach and writhes against the rumpled sheets, seeking friction. He knows he's not allowed to come without John's hands on him, though. And by now, Sherlock complies with the rules.

He's been lying face down on the mattress for hours now, exhausted yet still so very horny. None of his three orgasms today truly eased the arousal pooling low in his guts, and John is only coming into his mouth or all over his face and chest, not inside him. He desperately wants the feeling of John breaching him, filling him, his semen leaking out of him afterwards.

Sherlock's blissful misery is heightened by John's fingers playing with his hole, stroking it, circling it, teasing it but never pushing inside, not even a little bit. Sherlock relaxes and flutters his sphincter, trying to coax John inside, at least a fingertip, but such slutty behaviour just earns him a swat on the buttocks before John turns the vibrator onto its highest setting, making Sherlock almost sob with need and desperation.

“I told you, Sherlock, patience.” John tells him again.

“But I need it, I need you. Please, I'm so horny, I'll be so good, just a little, please...,” Sherlock is babbling, literally biting the pillow.

John smiles down at him, watching as Sherlock humps the sheets. “Are you very wet?”

“Yes, John, I'm dripping with it.” He gets up on his knees to show the damp spot beneath him, his cockhead an angry, spongy red, the slit glistening . But he's too strung out to stay like this for long and sinks back down again, a puddle of want.

“You are insatiable. I've let you come three times today and still it's not enough for you. I think we should accept the invitation after all.”

“What invitation?” Sherlock pants, rocking his hips seductively.

“A party. The man I bought the lube and chain from told me. It's tonight. A house full of lovely boys begging to be used. His words.”

Sherlock sighs. “You could use me instead.”

John pets his arse again. “Oh, I will. Later.”

Sherlock's groans with undisguised disappointment, a sound of pure want.

“God, it's hot.” John's not only referring to the temperature in their room. The lingering smell of sex combined with Sherlock's noises have him half-hard again already. But it's simply too hot to fuck and John is nearing forty. 

They've opened the large window in the morning to let in a cool breeze but now it has become a scorching draught searing their skin, threatening to set them on fire. John gets up to close the shutters and take a bottle of water and some ice cubes from the little fridge in the corner, filling a large glass with icy water. He downs it before reaching the bed.

“Are you thirsty?” When Sherlock turns his sweaty face sideways, John fishes one ice cube from the glass and presses it against Sherlock's swollen lips. John made him suck his cock for hours this morning and it still shows. Now, Sherlock sucks again, greedy, his pink tongue swirling around the frozen splinter to wet his enticing lips.

John takes another ice cube and swipes it down Sherlock's spine, letting it melt against his burning skin. Sherlock shivers a little, goosebumps spreading in the wake of the ice. He erratically undulates his hips when John reaches the crack of his arse.

“You want it down there?” John asks.

Sherlock nods eagerly.

“Beg for it.”

Sherlock has to swallow a few times, his Adam's apple bobbing in his parched throat. “Please John. I'm so hot. I need something to cool me down, on my hole. God, it burns. I might get mad.”

“You are still way too eloquent.” John chuckles as he pushes the ice cube over the swell of Sherlock's arse and between his cheeks. Sherlock sucks in a sharp breath as the cold hits his tight pucker. “Spread your legs a little.”

Sherlock does, pulling one knee up at his side, exposing himself. His balls are already tight against his perineum. John watches small droplets of cold water run over it.

“Beautiful.” He hums.

Very carefully, he circles Sherlock's hole with the melting cube before pushing it gently in. The man in front of him moans like a whore as finally something breaches him. Yet it wont last. The cube is sucked into his hot, greedy opening but soon a little trickle of water oozing out of him shows that it has perished inside the furnace of Sherlock's arse.

“You are still not fully recovered. Can you feel the water dripping out of your arse? You can't clench your muscles properly. See, that's why I'm not fucking you.”

“Please, let me try once more.” Sherlock whines, visibly contracting his hole.

John grins. “As I said, insatiable.” But to ease Sherlock's need John takes another ice cube from the glass and pushes it inside, watching as it slips past Sherlock's soft pink rim. Sherlock sighs with pleasure and rubs his cock against the bedding, his movements becoming more urgent and insistent.

“Tell me about that invitation?” He murmurs. The muscles in his back flex as he arches his spine.

“I'm not sure I want you in a room with loads of horny strangers. Last time wasn't exactly my favourite experience.”

Sherlock goes still beneath him as John's index finger caresses his hole, flicking it tenderly, spreading the cool fluid dripping out of it down Sherlock's cleft.

“It doesn't have to be like... back at the manor.” Sherlock says, his long fingers wrapping around the chain tying him to the bed.

“I'm not sure how public I want to go. It's possible that your brother is still looking for us. I'm not sure he bought my disappearance...”

“I told you I could arrange for a body to be found and identified as yours.” Sherlock half turns around, looking up at John from under his lashes, utterly debauched.

“That's very sweet of you, in a fucked up kind of way.” John smiles a little lopsided.

Sherlock shrugs and rolls over to resume his grinding.

“It's a small scene. I'm sure certain circles know each other...” John seems to talk more to himself as he kneads Sherlock's plush buttocks.

“Mycroft always hated the Mediterranean. He prefers the Nordic type.” Sherlock mumbles into the sheets.

“Is that so?” John wonders, pulling Sherlock's cheeks apart to watch his pucker flutter.

“Please, lets go out. My brain is rotting. I need some diversion.” Sherlock begs, his voice like molten chocolate.

John laughs. “Your brain didn't complain when you sucked my cock all morning. And I'm not sure I like your idea of... diversion.”

“You can put me into chastity. Just let me get up and out of here for a while. My cock feels positively chafed.”

“Well, then stop rutting like a horny bitch in heat.” John chuckles.

“Easier said than done with your little toy up my arse. Despite, I didn't leak, did I?”

John looks down at Sherlock's entrance he's been playing with. It's perfectly dry. 

“You know what I really want to do to you, Sherlock?” He suddenly asks.

Sherlock shakes his tousled head and takes a deep breath, pressing his burning face against the starched white pillow.

“I want to push a speculum inside you, fill you to the rim with ice cubes made from frozen pepper oil and watch as they slowly melt inside you. Can you imagine how that would feel, stinging oil slowly flooding your sensitive guts? You would whimper and moan and it would be so delicious, agony for hours on end.”

“Yes...,” Sherlock sighs. He has closed his eyes and is fucking the mattress in earnest now.

“And you would let me, wouldn't you?” John pulls his arse cheeks a little wider apart, staring mesmerised at Sherlock's pulsing hole. He's almost sure that he can hear the vibrator stir inside him.

“Yes.” Sherlock answers, open, and honest, and raw, and his.

“I might even let you make the ice cubes yourself, so you could decide on the concentration of the solution... then I'd have you warm up the speculum with your hands, kneeling on the floor, perhaps next to the toilet. You'd have to beg me for hours to use it on you, until the cubes are frozen. Then I'd make you spread yourself for me as wide as you can, lube up your hole and ask me again to put the speculum inside you. You'd explain to me why you needed it...”

“...because I'm such a horny slut, I need the stretch, I need to get cleaned out, and you are such a good doctor...”

“Yes.” John whispers, bending forward to brush his hard, glistening cock down over Sherlock's exposed cleft. Sherlock moans and bucks in response, silently begging for John to push inside him and take him, but John just continues to tease, rubbing his fat cockhead against Sherlock's rim again and again. Sherlock whimpers with need, rocking back, circling his pelvis. His hole is shiny with John's precome and it looks so very inviting that John is close to losing control and just go for it. He remembers how tight Sherlock is... _no, used to be_... yes, that's why he has to restrain himself. If he ever wants Sherlock to experience the anguish and shock of being opened up by a metal speculum again he has to postpone the brutal fucking that is on the forefront of his foggy mind.

“Turn around.” He says instead.

Sherlock is so hard it looks outright painful, his purplish cock poking upwards from his concave abdomen, blotchy with arousal. His pubic hair is growing back, and the base of his cock is surrounded by a halo of short black fur, a nice contrast to the blond hair on his head. His foreskin is fully retracted, allowing the precome to drip freely down his shaft.

“You want to come again?” John asks and Sherlock nods, wide-eyed, pulling on his bounds. But the chain is too short; he can't touch himself when flat on his back.

When John leans over and takes both of them in hand Sherlock shudders. He must be so sensitive by now; at least John is. But they don't need lube, as Sherlock has been leaking copiously.

John fists both their cocks in one hand, sitting astride Sherlock's thighs, his other hand playing with Sherlock's nipple rings. He's going slowly; he doesn't really need to come again, but then he doesn't have a vibrator up his arse either. Sherlock, on the other hand, is moaning with every tug; when John rubs his cockhead against Sherlock's frenulum, he outright arches off the bed.

“Please... please, John.” His breathing is wrecked, his voice breaking. He's shattering beneath John, loosing control.

When John takes the last ice cube from the glass and rubs it over Sherlock's nipples the sensation is enough to send him over the edge. By now it's an almost clear dribble that oozes from Sherlock's spend cock, having come three times already, but he still writhes in ecstasy, biting his lip.

Watching Sherlock like this – tied up, fucked out, moaning and trembling – is a feast John can't live without anymore. He'll do everything to keep him like this – debauched, spoiled, corrupted by the needs of his body.

“About that party tonight...,” John says as he shimmies up Sherlock's body until he's squatting with spread knees over Sherlock's face, presenting his hole to be licked, “we could go...”

As he lowers himself Sherlock obediently pushes his tongue inside him, lapping and sucking at his rim just the way he knows John likes.

“...under a few conditions.” John takes his own cock in hand again and begins to pump it in earnest while Sherlock watches a little cross-eyed from below his blond fringe. “You'll be in full chastity. No one will be allowed to touch you without my permission. And you'll do exactly as you are told. You won't put me to shame.”

Sherlock attempts to nod, realises it's impossible in his current situation, and blinks instead. He busies his tongue at John's entrance, trying to be very good, not daring to risk to put him off. His chin and cheeks are already soaking wet, but he doesn't care.

It's over far too soon for his liking. He truly enjoys licking John there and could eat him out for hours. But apparently, John has other plans. He rides Sherlock's face only for a few minutes before he comes all over his hair.

Sherlock is about to protest but John just grins down at him wickedly. “Believe me, I'm going to put your mouth to good use tonight. Don't you worry.” He rakes his fingers through Sherlock's filthy hair, spreading the mess he's made. Sherlock loves it.

Eventually, he unties Sherlock and removes the vibrator before they both take a much needed shower, Sherlock kneeling on the tiles as John washes come out of his hair.

\----------

Mycroft Holmes puts his phone down in the sitting room of a neat cottage near Oxford, placing it face down next to his cup and saucer.

“Something urgent, dear?” His mother asks in her crisp tone.

Mycroft shakes his head and takes another piece of the Victorian sponge on offer. His gaze wanders over to the mantle where a picture of his younger brother stands on full display, a black ribbon draped over its frame. It's the image that has also been used in the official obituary, having been taken two years ago when Sherlock had launched his website. 

It looks rather distinguished, not at all like the pictures Mycroft has stored of is brother on his phone. In those, Sherlock is sweating, bleeding, crying, covered in come and piss. Mycroft takes a sip of tea – too weak for his liking – and allows his thoughts to drift as his father laments the state of the roads and the decay of the Occident in general.

Mycroft has heard this speech often enough to know when he's expected to nod and hum in approval. Tuning his father out, he's able to retreat into his mind palace – or in this case, rather his mind dungeon – to conjure up memories of Sherlock: Tied to a beam in the attic of the manor house, getting whipped hard; fucking himself nearly unconscious on the toys he'd provided; bending over Mycroft's desk in his club, exposing his tight pucker; Mycroft and John both taking his brother at the same time, their cocks rubbing against each other inside Sherlock's hot, pliant body; Sherlock writhing in his lap, moaning his name.

Mycroft crosses his legs as he remembers Sherlock being breached by a dildo the size of his long pale thigh. Those visions keep haunting Mycroft, who has to admit that he does nothing to suppress them.

Because, hadn't there always been whispers, even before Sherlock's funeral? It's Mycroft's job to have his eyes and ears everywhere, so he'd been aware of those whispers. But it had been nothing more – just hushed voices uttered in the shadows of the underbelly of the moloch that is London. 

Of course, he'd kept tabs on John, especially as he had not attended the funeral, but he'd behaved pretty ordinary. Grieving, yes, but just as expected. John Watson... was... a very ordinary man after all.

Until he'd vanished. That had been the moment Mycroft's suspicions had been truly raised for the first time. Now he knew something was fishy.

Yet at the same time, the whispers in London had died down, and no amount of persuasion – and the occasional arm-twisting done by Lestrade – had brought any satisfying results.

Not until now, that is. A name had started to float around in the highly secretive circles Mycroft moves in – not the political ones. Ormond Sacker. He's come to the attention of certain interested parties because of some rather unusual purchases and inquiries. It's a small scene of connoisseurs.

Sacker stepped onto the stage only a couple months prior, incidentally shortly after John Watson had dropped from the face of the earth. Though he seems to have been around for some time – at least since 2010 – any tangible, traceable record of him stems from this year only.

Interesting.

Suspicious?

Mycroft had asked for a picture of the man, which proofed to be surprisingly hard to come by.

Again, very interesting. But promising as well? Worth of Mycroft's precious time? Or was he chasing ghosts as Greg had dared to imply only a few days ago? 

After letting the voice of his parents wash over him for another ten minutes, Mycroft bids his farewell on urgent government business. He's made it a habit to come up here every Sunday since his brother's demise, but is now contemplating cutting those visits to once every fortnight. It's getting tedious.

Despite, he has something waiting at the club. Not something like Sherlock – he's one in a million, not easily replaceable – but at least something to take his mind off things a little and allow him to relax. It had been tied up the whole day and suspended from the ceiling, a huge plug up its arse holding in the loads strangers had shot up it during last night. It must by now be whimpering with pain and need, begging to be released. Mycroft imagines the soaked ball-gag in his toy's mouth and has to admit that his bespoke trousers suddenly feel a little too tight. He stares unseeingly at the green countryside passing by outside as his sleek black car drives down the M40.

He's been too tense over the last couple weeks. Even Lestrade had told him so. His boys had to take the blame for that. It had been too much for some. At least his current plaything proofed to be a little more resilient. He'd test its limits tonight with some of the more adventurous toys from his collecting. There's that set of medieval pilliwinks he'd really like to use on different body parts to see what reactions they provoke. Everyone had a breaking point, Mycroft had learned a long time ago; even his little brother.

Mycroft shakes his head. This is bordering on obsessiveness. Yet he can't let go, at least not without being absolutely certain. It tortures him. Who'd thought his little brother would be able to extort such power over him after his death? It's ridiculous...

But better safe than sorry. Mycroft makes a short call to put Ormond Sacker's name on the special observation list of MI6.


	10. Florence 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock accept the invitation they got and visit an orgy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, one day late because it's Christmas over here. Happy holidays!

The party takes place in a grand villa on a hill outside Florence. Arriving at the gate by cab, John presses the bell and is requested to give a code word.

“Piacere.”

The large gates open, revealing a rising slope behind it. The gravel crunches under their feet as they walk up to the square white house with the terracotta roof and large black window frames. The shutters are open; light and music streams onto the lawn and laurel bushes.

There's an attendant standing by the front door, wearing silky Indian pantaloons riding low on his slim hips, an earpiece, and nothing else. His tanned, well-muscled torso glistens with oil. He indicates for John and Sherlock to step into the hall and change in a room to their left.

Usually, Sherlock would have worn his coat, concealing his attire, but it's too hot in Italy for the heavy woollen garment (he left the original one in London but ordered a new one when staying in Berlin before John arrived). And as John had decided that he wasn't leaving their hotel naked in nothing but a silver chastity belt, he had been forced to wear ordinary clothes (a light pale-blue summer suit combined with a dark blue shirt). As it turned out, they were not the only couple with dress issues. To solve this problem, a room had been set aside where the guests could change according to their tastes.

John just sheds his light linen jacket, keeping his black jeans and polo shirt on, but Sherlock disrobes completely. Beneath his suit he's been wearing what looks like a thong – only made of stainless steel. His cock and balls are trapped in a silver bulge with tiny holes. The contraption runs between his legs, with black leather padding on each side to prevent bruising, and vanishes between the pale mounts of his muscular arse cheeks, covering his hole. A dildo is attached to the strap between his buttocks, filling him and brushing his prostate as he walks.

It strictly allows no access whatsoever to his private parts. It's maddening.

Sherlock's nipple rings shimmer in the candlelight as they step from the changing room. candelabras are everywhere, the fluttering flames of what must be thousands of candles dancing over the painted walls of the house as Sherlock and John ascend the broad staircase to reach the first floor where the ballroom is situated.

Two servants clad in nothing but tiny red leather shorts pull open the doors to a large room: there are more candles, reflected in mirrors, paintings showing rather lewd scenes from Greek and Roman mythology – Leda taken by the swan, Achilles and Patroclus showing just how good they get along, Zeus and his cup-bearer Ganymede, Diana and Callisto in some kind of mud-fight with their nymphs bordering on gang raping poor Callisto – and men in different states of undress everywhere. 

It's hot, despite the windows being open, the thin white curtains billowing in the still warm night breeze. The room is filled with the smells and sounds of sex. Next to the door stands a large gilded bowl, already containing a few used condoms. It feels even more surreal as the orgy in progress is accompanied by unobtrusive chamber music (Vivaldi, Sherlock registers). 

Sherlock has to blink a few times and swallows before he's able to follow John over the threshold. John, sensing his hesitation, takes his right hand and squeezes it reassuringly.

“It's okay. Come on.”

The evening seems to be well under way. There are couples but also three- or foursomes... even whole groups of men engaging in all sorts of sexual acts. Next to the door, on a sofa in the corner, a well-built youth is sucked off by a much older guy on his knees while another twink pounds the man's arse hard, gripping the hips in front of him tightly. They are all sweaty and moaning – as best as one can with a huge cock down one's throat – and don't spare the new arrivals so much as a glance.

On a nearby window sill, two men flank a third one, taking turns kissing him open-mouthed while fisting his cock. Suddenly, a fourth man joins in, grabbing the guy in the middle by his hair to pull him in, biting his lower lip. The noise of wet kisses and flesh pumping sweaty flesh fills Sherlock's ears.

In another alcove between two large windows, a fair young man has been tied to one of the ornate red and golden Louis Quince chairs with what seems like a thick velvety curtain tassel. His head is thrown back, exposing his long neck, and every muscle in his body seems strained as a tall man drips hot wax from one of the flickering candles all over his left thigh. The moan the blonde lets out borders on a scream, yet is so full of arousal that Sherlock doubts he's truly in pain. His agony is of a totally different kind.

Sherlock stops and watches, and John gives him a moment to take the scene in: The tied up man's cock is jutting out red, thick and proud from a nest of light-brown curls between his spread legs (each tied to one of the chair's lion clawed feet). There's already dried wax visible on the pale, sensitive skin on the inside of his both forearms (fixed to the elaborately carved gilded armrests), on his heaving shoulders and covering both his peaked nipples.

Sherlock knows that the next drip will hit the man's left thigh before finally, finally his tormentor/lover will get to where he really wants him – between his legs, covering tight balls, his twitching cock and all those silky golden pubes with hot molten wax.

Sherlock feels a flush spread down his neck and chest. His cock jerks in sympathy, straining against its metal cage in a futile effort to swell as the man in front of him writhes in his bounds. Sherlock knows exactly how this feels – the ache derived both from dread and anticipation alike; the first burning shock when the hot wax hits the skin; the sweet acceptance, followed by a longing for more, mixed with the fear fear of pain, heightening the sensation until one's whole body seems on fire...

Suddenly, John is standing very close.

“You like what you see here?”

Sherlock nods. “Yes, so far...,” he whispers, licking his lips.

“Remember, no one's to touch you. But you may look your fill.” John's mouth very gently brushes Sherlock's hot cheek.

As they proceed further, what initially had seemed just one enormous hall is revealed in fact to be a succession of rooms, linked by large open double-doors. It's not as if every adjoining room has a special theme, though it seems that people with similar predilections are flocking together.

There's a room with men wearing rubber and leather, with boys on leashes kneeling next to their masters, their eyes cast onto the polished floor.

In another room, a man has been tied down onto one of the velvety upholstered benches and is being flogged with a cane, groaning into his ball gag. His arse and back are already covered in bright red welts, and Sherlock feels his rebellious cock jerk again. Another man has been suspended from one of the huge crystal chandeliers dangling from the stucco ceiling. His feet don't reach the floor as he's viciously whipped with a bull leash. Blood is already dripping form his abused body, yet his cock is hard and leaking. As he wasn't offered the courtesy of a gag his screams fill the room, echoing from the painted walls. This, however, seems to do a lot for his spectators who've gathered around the display on previously arranged chairs, either bouncing someone in their lap or having a willing participant crouch between their legs, setting their mouths to good work.

By now, John, and especially Sherlock, have attracted quite a few glances, ranging in intensity from interested to proprietorial. Sherlock keeps close to John. It's not that watching the scenes unfolding in front of him unsettles or disturbs him (they are rather mild in content, he thinks to himself, compared to what he and John have been up to) or that he's intimidated by the intimacy of strangers - he has just never liked large groups. He needs John as some kind of buffer between him and the intrusion of people in general and in this setting in particular. There are just too many possibilities on offer here for Sherlock's brain to process, so he's willing to follow John's lead which has proven to be both save and sensible.

Leaving the whipping room behind, they enter what seems to be the last chamber. It's slightly larger than the others, with some kind of podium at its far side, on which is set a huge four poster bed like on a stage. As they get closer, Sherlock sees a very handsome middle-aged man lounge on it – fit, short brown hair, wearing a purple silk dressing gown (Sherlock longingly remembers his own he'd had to leave back in London...). He's surrounded by four absolutely stunning boys – they can't be older than twenty – stroking his skin, kissing him in turns or sucking at his nipples through the cool thin fabric covering his body.

“I think we found our host.” John whispers into Sherlock's ear. An almost naked servant passes them, just clad in small satin pants, carrying a tablet full of champagne flutes. John takes one and presses it in Sherlock's hand.

“Have a drink while I say hello and introduce us.”

“John...,” there's a hint of panic in Sherlock's voice.

“It's alright, I'll be just over there. I'm not leaving you alone.” John squeezes his free hand and presses a kiss just below his ear. Sherlock takes a large sip of the most excellent champagne – Piper-Heidsieck vintage 2004 – his eyes following John as he advances towards the bed.

When he reaches it, the man lying on it sits up and shoos his young lovers away.

“Buona sera.” He says.

“Good evening.” John replies.

The man gives John an amused smile.

“You are English?”

“Yes, apparently. Ormond Sacker.” John is surprised how easily his false name falls from his lips these days. “Thank you for the invitation.”

Their host gives him a shrewd glance. He's not a fool, John thinks, and doubts again that it has been wise to attend this party.

“Whatever. Names don't mean much here, Ormond.” He rolls the unusual name around his tongue as if savouring its sound. The man has only a light Italian accent. He sounds American in fact. “I'm Mario Acri. Welcome to my little soiree. I take it you come via Bruno?”

Bruno had been the guy in the rather exclusive sex shop where John had bought a few of their latest toys, including the device Sherlock is wearing tonight.

“Yes, he suggested I might like it here.” John smiles, polite but shallow.

“And do you?” Acri cocks his head ever so slightly, a dark spark gleaming in his deep brown eyes.

“It's... nice. A little vanilla for my liking.” John turns slightly to look over at Sherlock, who's standing where he's left him, the almost empty champagne flute clutched in his hand.

“You are with him?” Acri asks, his eyes following John's gaze. “Hmmm.” It's a low appreciative hum full of admiration; or maybe envy?

“I don't share.” John states, his voice suddenly hard.

“Understandable.” Acri doesn't take his eyes of Sherlock. “But perhaps you wouldn't mind joining me in a private session, catering better to your deviant tastes?”

John licks his lips. “No, I wouldn't mind at all.”

Both men look at one another. A silent understanding transpires, from one afficionado to the other.

With a curd nod John goes back over to where Sherlock is still waiting for him. A pair who'd been making out on a nearby chaise-lounge has noticed him and is eyeing him predatorily while shoving their tongues deep inside each other's mouth. They are not fully naked but quickly getting there while trying to attract Sherlock's attention.

“Sherlock. Come on, apparently, our host has a surprise for us.” John takes the champagne flute from Sherlock's hand and intertwines their fingers before pulling him to an almost invisible door set in the ornate wall of the room. Acri is holding it open for them, stepping aside to let them pass. Behind it lies a narrow corridor leading to another, much smaller room.

“When my family built this house, the rooms you've seen were for official entertainment. These here were the private quarters.” Their host explains. Second generation immigrant to the US, Sherlock deduces. Baltimore. Art dealer. Travels back home during summer every year. Married to a woman. Four daughters. Catholic, though obviously not devout.

The chamber they are standing in has plain cream-coloured walls with a small window opposite the door. The floor is tiled. The only furniture consists of a a chest of drawers pushed against the wall below the window and a wooden bench screwed to the floor in the middle of the room. On it sit the four lovely young boys who had previously been lounging around on the bed with Acri, pleasuring him. They are all naked except for black leather collars around their slim necks.

“Those are my pets. They don't have names, just call them whatever you like.” Acri grins proudly. All men are tall, well built, hairless, with huge cocks in different states of arousal kept in cock rings. Their eyes are obediently cast to the floor. “They do anything I want.”

“Show me.” John says, sounding intrigued. He leans against the wall next to the door and Sherlock sinks down onto his knees next to him without being told. Mario acknowledges his behaviour with an approving nod.

Then he walks over to the chest of drawers and opens it. “I watched you, Mr Sacker. Despite the alluring display of sexual deviances out there, you didn't seem to find what you were looking for. Not even the spanking did it for you, though he, “Acri indicates for Sherlock, “seemed pretty turned on by the hot wax game. Therefore, I conclude that you are into the more intense kind of play.”

He has taken out a pot of elbow grease and throws it into the lap of one of his pets, who catches it and sinks down onto the floor.

“Watch.” Acri says to John. Then, addressing his kneeling pet: "Get to work, pig. Show our guests what your filthy hole can take."


	11. Florence 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little private session unfolds.

The lean, blond boy on all fours is grunting as two arms move elbow-deep inside him, slowly twisting. The sounds of his heavy breathing echo in the gloomy room.

It had started with the boy Acri had called his pig lubing up his own hand and shoving it inside himself, in full view of his audience. His hand had been swallowed surprisingly easy, accompanied by a deep moan, but the awkward angle meant that he couldn't reach deep enough inside himself.

After a moment, Acri had given another one of his boys a nod – a thin twink with brown hair and a hint of freckles – and obediently he had set to work, lubing his right arm up to the shoulder with the oily elbow grease before spearing his fingers and pushing them slowly inside the kneeling boy's arsehole, next to the hand already at play there. The sphincter had given way easily. As the broad knuckles breached the rim, however, the pig had gasped a little before his muscle had closed tightly around both wrists. John and Sherlock had watched with unabashed excitement.

“Deeper.” Acri had ordered, and his toy-boys had complied, moving their hands back and forth until they had been sliding easily in and out. Soft whimpers were escaping them that turned into wails from the pig as the other boy sped up his movements.

“Piu?” the brown-haired boy had asked. “Piu profondo.” Acri had answered. Sweat had been dripping down the pig's body while his face had looked flushed, eyes screwed shut.

Acri had indicated for yet another boy – olive-skinned, toned, with short black curls - to get down as well. He'd lubed up in full view of the already impaled boy, who had tried to shake his head, glancing up, casting a pleading look at his master.

But Acri had just given a little nod, his eyes dark and hard, and the newcomer had shuffled behind the blonde and pushed in alongside the other two much paler arms.

The sound the pig had made seemed to fit his moniker, for it had sounded more like a tortured animal than of anything a human might utter. It wasn't a scream though, more a desperate, broken whine.

Acri didn't allow for time to adjust. “Muoversi, puttana.” He'd kicked the pig's hip until he'd started to rock back onto the two arms and his own hand buried inside him, almost sobbing both with pain and pleasure. His whimpers mixed with the squelching sounds of the lube dripping from his arse.

“Have you ever seen anything like this, Ormond? Such a greedy whore, getting his ass ripped apart and ruined and loving it?” Acri asks now, his eyes never leaving the arrangement of human bodies he's choreographed.

The two boys playing with the pig slowly begin to palm their own cocks with their free hands.

John licks his lips and nods. “Actually, Mario, I have.” He looks down at Sherlock who stares at the scene in front of him wide-eyed, his mouth a little slack.

“This delicate flower?” Acri asks doubtful, tilting his head in Sherlock's direction.

“You wouldn't believe what he can take.” John grins.

“You could show me, Ormond.” The Italian suggests playfully. He's standing next to the wooden bench with only one boy still sitting on it. Now Acri grabs the his head and presses it against his crotch. Obedient lips start immediately to suck him through the silk of his dressing gown.

“Not tonight, I'm afraid.” John answers, stroking Sherlock's blond curls. Acri shrugs.

“Later then, maybe.” He says, but it doesn't seem very important to him. He seems quite content to show of his own subs.

Eventually, the two boys remove their hands. Their hard cocks jut out in front of them, leaking. They jerk in excitement as the pig on the floor pulls his cheeks apart and shows off his gaping hole. Thick dollops of lube drip out of the reddened rim and onto the tiled floor.

“Look at this mess...” Acri says, but John doesn't have to be told.

“Filthy.” He agrees.

“Ho bisogno di cazzo...,” the boy mouthing Acri's crotch whispers.

Acri parts his dressing gown, baring his own thick cock. The boy suckling him opens wide and swallows, almost choking on the stiff meat sliding down his throat.

Sherlock licks his lips but stays put.

The two boys on the floor start snogging, sharing deep, open-mouthed kisses, all tongue, until spit drips from their chins. Sherlock is balling his fists at his side. There's a thin sheen of sweat on his face.

“Stop that! Smettila!” Acri shouts. “Get down onto the pig, boys. Take it.”

They quickly line up behind the gaping arse. The position looks a bit awkward, with one man kneeling behind the pig and the other squatting over him, but it works quite well. Soon, two large cocks slide in and out of the pig's wet hole.

Sherlock knows exactly how this feels. With a sharp pang he realises how much he misses to be filled like this, getting his arse completely wrecked. John had been way too careful for his liking over the past days. He starts to squirm a little, clenching around the plug inside him, but one look from John makes him go still and rigid again.

Meanwhile, Acri has bend the fourth boy over the chest of drawers and is fucking him hard, slapping his arse now and then and calling him “fica” and “cagna”. Deep moans and sharp cries fill the room, mingling with the smell of sex, sweat and lube.

Sherlock's cock is by now throbbing against its metal confinement. His hole contracts rhythmically around the plug at the sight in front of him, two cocks pounding into a glistening hole. He desperately wants to be on the receiving end as well. Now! But John just strokes his hair, despite the huge bulge in his own jeans.

“Please...” Sherlock whispers, turning towards him and glancing upwards.

“Shh, I know. But I have other plans for you. Remember, you promised to behave.” The hand in his hair tightens for a moment and Sherlock shudders but falls silent again.

Acri turns a little towards them and allows his dressing gown to slip off his shoulders. His muscled arms tighten and his back heaves as he plunges into the lean body pinned down under him. Sweat starts to run down his back while the tendons in his legs and arse strain beneath tanned skin.

Sherlock is panting, small huffs of breath escaping his nose as he presses his lips shut to prevent himself from moaning.

Suddenly, their host stills before bucking once, twice, hissing “Fuck!” through gritted teeth. He stays inside the boy for a few moments longer before pulling out with a wet slurping sound. Sherlock almost jumps forward to his feet, but John's fist in his hair holds him back.

“I think we should show some gratitude towards you, Senior Acri. Would you allow my sub to clean your fucktoy up?”

Acri looks down at Sherlock as he steps aside and gestures over to the boy who still leans against the chest of drawers. Come already starts to drip from his hole. 

Sherlock quickly crawls over to him on all four and presses his eager mouth into the exposed cleft. The boy is absolutely hairless down here and tastes of expensive soap, lube and come. With his speared tongue, Sherlock pushes in, lapping up the thick goo. It has been a lot. Sherlock's

The boy's clenches his red, tight pucker but under Sherlock's ministrations it relaxes a bit until another drop of white come oozes out. Sherlock catches it with his open mouth.

John makes a noise behind him that sounds like a stifled moan. “Yeah, love, suck him clean.”

As Sherlock's tongue presses into the boys arsehole again, it twitches a little. “Easy.” Acri says, and then, to John: “Quite the comewhore you have there. Come on, give it to him.” Sherlock groans as come spurts form the boys arse directly into his mouth. He pulls back a little so John and Acri can watch.

Sherlock sucks and licks, pushes his tongue inside the stretched hole until the boy above him writhes and moans. 

“Enough.” John tells him after a while. Reluctantly, Sherlock pulls back. His mouth and chin are covered in come and traces of lube. “I think we should pay some attention to our host as well.”

Sherlock turns and shuffles in the direction of the bench on which Acri is sitting, his eyes still heavy-lidded with lust. When he comes to kneel in the vee between Acri's open thighs he can see that his cock is still half-hard, the foreskin retracted. White come sticks in its folds, and some has dried around the slit or has congealed in his dark, trimmed pubic hair. 

Sherlock knows that Acri must be sensitive, so he sets to work carefully, just applying the tip of his tongue. The taste of musk and come fills his mouth and he desperately wishes he could touch himself. But it's not to be, not tonight. Acri raises his hand as if to bury it in Sherlock's blond hair, but puts it back down onto his thigh when he catches John's displeasing look.

While Sherlock is happily licking and sucking with abandon, the two boys continue to fuck the pig, their cocks kept hard by their cock rings, all three of them grunting and hissing.

“You like that, the taste of come?” Acri asks Sherlock, who can only give a small yet enthusiastic nod. Acri pets his shoulder as a sign for Sherlock to withdraw. He sits back on his heels, eyes cast down onto the floor. 

“Well, there is more, you know.” Acri glances over to the boy still leaning against the chest of drawers. Now, at a wink, he comes over to the bench and sits in his Dom's lap, facing Sherlock. 

“Bacialo.” Acri whispers into the boys ear and he leans a little forward until his face is just inches away from Sherlock's. Two of his fingers lift Sherlock's chin so their eyes can meet. The boy's are a surprising cold blue.

They start kissing, deep, open mouthed, the boy pushing his wet tongue inside Sherlock's mouth still filled with come. 

The boy hadn't come yet, Sherlock remembers, giving as good as he gets while the boys hard-on pokes him in the chest. As they moan into each other's mouth, sharing spit and come, Acri chuckles, playing with his sub's nipples. Then he whispers something in his ear.

“Can he come over your pet's face, Ormond?” He asks John.

“I'm afraid not.” John replies, and both Sherlock and the boy groan in disappointment. “But he can come onto the floor and Sven will lick it up.”

And Sherlock does. Apparently, the boy hadn't been allowed to come for over a week, so it's quite a load he shoots onto the tiles. Sherlock wants to press his face into it, smear it all over his skin, wallow in it, but John only allows him to lap it up. He brings his tongue out again and again, licking up the sticky mess until the tiles are clean again.

“You have trained him well.” Acri says, appreciating Sherlock's prompt service without hesitation.

“He's a natural.” John tells him, smiling. “A truly greedy comeslut.”

Meanwhile, the two men double-penetrating the pig are getting close as well. They are rutting and grunting, unable to get really deep at this odd angle but finally it seems to be enough. They both come, almost yelling when finding release.

The pig whines and bucks before he climaxes as well, more come splattering onto the tiles. He's prolapsing, his bright red rose beautifully creamy white and wet.

The dark-skinned boy reacts quickly. He gathers the come on the tiles up with his hand and pushes it back inside the pig's arse, pushing the prolapsing bowel back. The pig yelps, going very still. His arse must hurt like hell but he also seems excited to get his own come put back inside him like this. 

The tanned arm inside his arse rotates, and the muscle movement beneath the skin shows Sherlock that the boy opens his fist inside the pig's rectum to smear his inner walls with semen. After a few moments, however, he withdraws again. The wet rose blooms again.

“Clean him as well. But tenderly.” John tells Sherlock, who dives forward and buries his face between the pig's spread cheeks.

He lets his tongue circle the folds, savouring the texture and the taste. There's so much come! The protruding bowel feels soft and a little spongy against his lips. Sherlock kisses if, lapping at it, and it must feel good because the man in front of him trembles a little before shooting another load all over the floor.

Sherlock takes his time. Slowly, gently, he pushes his tongue into the protruding intestine. He's aware that the others watch him, that there are sighs and moans, but it doesn't deter him. In fact, it spurs him on. He worships the sore arse in front of him, giving it all the affection he's capable off. He hopes that one day John might allow him again to train for this, but right now it seems that John wants him as tight as possible.

During the whole scene, Sherlock's cock strains and throbs against the chastity device. He even dares to bring one hand between his legs and uselessly gropes his sheathed groin.

“God, look how needy he is. Won't you give him a little treat, Ormond? He's been so good.” Acri asks.

“First, he has to lick up the mess here.” John's point towards the small puddle of come on the floor and Sherlock goes for it. It's not much but as he keeps it in his mouth and gargles a bit with it bubbles start to form, spilling over his lips. At a nod of John, Sherlock swallows.

He's wanted to suck on the prolapse a bit more, but he's also aware that the man needs to get it shoved back inside if he's not to risk some permanent damage.

But apparently, their host has other plans. After he's dismissed the other three boys, the pig has to stay on all four. He's shuddering as if he knows what awaits him. Acri takes a riding crop from the drawers.

“He's been with me the longest, you know. I got him eight years back when he was just fifteen. Used him hard and well. Now, as you can see, he's a little tattered and worn. His bowels fall out easily. That's what comes with being able to fit anything up your arse. Anything. Isn't that so, pig?”

The boy grunts affirmatively in response, his head hanging between his shoulders.

“If I don't plug him with some huge monster dildo, I'll have to put him in nappies. It's disgusting, really. But I know that out there are some men who are into this sort of thing. I whore him out to them. He has to earn his keep now, don't you?”

The slave grunts again. Sherlock swallows. His mouth has suddenly gone dry. He wonders if somewhere along the way the boy has lost his ability to speak. Sherlock knows that after some time in an intense relationship like this, it can be hard to surface from subspace. He remembers all too well his time at his family mansion, being trained for Mycroft. He's lost something back then and is still not sure if he'll be able recover from it. Looking back, it frightens him how far he's prepared to go; or what he would allow John to do to him.

As if he's heard him, Acri explains: “I had his tongue and vocal chords removed some years ago. He was babbling and screaming all the time. It was just too much. Now his mouth is just a wet whole for any cock that pushes into it. And it's not as if he's having a say in anything since he joined my household. You are happy like this, aren't you, pig?”

The pig nods. Sherlock shivers a little.

“I've thought about something like this myself.” John admits. Sherlock goes very still. “But I don't think we are ready for such a huge commitment yet.”

Acri nods. “Yes, it's quite a step.”

Sherlock casts his eyes down and bows his head, not sure if he can hide his feelings from showing on his face.

Suddenly, the boy on the floor wiggles his arse in the air.

“Ah, yes, he knows what he needs. Before I plug him again, there'll be a bit of spanking. As a reward. The only form of caress I'll give him.”

Sherlock and John watch as Acri rains a row of well-placed blows right onto the protruding red intestine. It must hurt like hell, for the man winces, groans and sobs, but doesn't move away. After about ten strokes his arms give out. Acri stops.

“Shh,” he whispers, putting the cane away. “Now, lets put your plug back inside you, shall we?”

The pig grunts. Acri takes a huge dildo from the drawer, almost as thick as Sherlock's thigh, lubes it up a little and shoves it up the pig's arse. It glides in easily. Sherlock watches both fascinated and appalled as the ruined arse swallows the gigantic toy.

“Now, let's return to the party.” Their host pulls his dressing gown back on.

“Can we have a moment, please? ” John suddenly asks, his voice a little rough.

“Do you mind me watching?” Acri turns and slowly sits down again.

“Not at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!


	12. Florence 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They return back to the orgy where Sherlock is served his favourite dish.

To Sherlock's great relieve, John opens the chastity device locking him in and removes it. Instantly, Sherlock's cock swells and hardens. Yet he sighs with disappointment as the plug slides from his hole. Acri smirks.

“What a gorgeous specimen. I completely understand why you keep him locked away.”

John smiles non-committally and reaches into his trouser pocket to retrieve a small thin metal rod that resembles a corkscrew.

Acri looks suddenly excited while Sherlock is just puzzled.

“What is this?” He asks suspiciously.

“It's a sound. A little reward for your cooperation.”

Sherlock stares at the piece of metal in John's hand. He remembers the first time they did this, back in London. It had been good, but this device looks like a medieval torture instrument.

John deftly screws it in place inside the pouch of the chastity belt.

“I'm not sure this is going to work.” Sherlock declares. He's hard, yet there's not enough room for his erect cock inside the metal confinement.

John holds it out for him invitingly. “Let's see.”

The plug glides back into his hole as the straps of the chastity belt are fastened around Sherlock's waist. John tells him to take his erection in one hand and pull his slit a little apart with the other. As Sherlock obliges, John carefully inserts the tip of the sound into his urethra and slowly pushes it in.

Sherlock stares down, watching his most tender part being breached and invaded by hard, unyielding metal. It's amazing. It's frightening. It feels indescribable.

John takes his time, careful not to hurt Sherlock. This is a little dangerous, but he's a doctor after all. Sherlock tries to relax and not to worry but that's easier said than done when a five inch long metal screw is pushed up one's penis.

Yet it feels glorious. Getting his cock fucked is an intense experience. Acri has stepped closer and watches mesmerised as well.

It's not wholly pleasurable, though. The slight pain, the odd feeling of being stuffed where usually nothing is put into, the unfamiliar stretch and burn soften Sherlock's cock. Therefore John is able, after a little adjustment, to lock the chastity belt again.

“How does it feel?” He asks.

Sherlock writhes and fidgets. “Strange.” He says.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not much.” He takes a step forward and the sound moves inside him. Sherlock can't suppress a moan. “Oh god... it's... painful... upsetting. Wow... it's truly shocking.”

Pleasure and pain sear up his spine. He can feel himself leaking inside the metal bulge and is glad there are small holes in it. Otherwise he would have been trapped inside a puddly of precome very soon.

Meanwhile, the boy they call pig has been kneeling on the floor, sitting on his heels, watching Sherlock with a dazed yet somewhat shrewd expression. It's almost freaking him out as the boy opens his wrecked mouth and grins at him, exposing his toothless gums.

Sherlock shudders from head to toe, not only from the overstimulation. It's like someone has walked over his grave.

When Acri realises what's going on, he slaps the boy hard, a few times. His head lolls on his neck, spit flying from his contorted lips, but his eyes find Sherlock's again, two bottomless lakes of cold bleakness that make Sherlock recoil. It's like starring into a dark mirror, a disquieting outlook into a possible future. He can hear his brother's sonorous voice in his head, calling his name.

'This could be me,' Sherlock thinks, feeling bile rise in his throat. The pig eventually lowers his head to thank his master for the chastising. Acri excuses himself while he drags the boy from the room by his blond hair, pulling so hard that his pet whines in pain, a high-pitched wail that echoes in the chamber long after the boy's removal.

John, sensing that something just happened with Sherlock, quickly pulls him into a tight hug as soon as they are alone, petting his back.

“You okay?” He asks, sounding a little worried.

“Yes, John.” Sherlock says, biting his tongue for his slip-up. He must be way more perturbed than he thought if he makes such mistakes. Yet John doesn't seem to have notice.

A moment later, Acri appears again, wiping his hands on his dressing gown.

“Sorry about that. I put him in his cage for tonight. I think he might've gone round the bend after all.” He shrugs as if apologising. John just sighs. Sherlock blinks.

Their host raises both hands and smiles. “Shall we go back now?”

Sherlock's belt starts leaking as they leave the private chamber and return to the feast. With the sound in place, he can only walk slowly. Even like this, every movement sends electric shockwaves through his body. The hairs on his arms stand on edge, and there's a sheen of cold sweat forming on his brow.

“Do you enjoy it, having both your holes stuffed?” John whispers in his ear.

Sherlock nods.

“Next time, I make you kneel in front of every guy who wants you to suck him off. And you'll serve them all.”

Sherlock nods again. He'd do anything John asks for.

“You'd love to swallow everything, won't you?” Acri asks him, speaking into his other ear. Sherlock shivers. They've reached the large bed again. Only, Acri's boys are gone, apparently having done their duty for tonight. The party is still in full swing, though.

Sherlock is not sure if he's allowed to talk directly to their host. He searches John's gaze to gain permission, and only after a little nod from him does he say: “Yes, very much.”

“I'd guessed so, the way you went down on my pets and ate them out.” Acri's hand pushes into Sherlock's hair, turning his head to face him.

Sherlock blushes a little and nods, biting down on his lower lip.

“God, he's adorable.” Acri tells John, looking over Sherlock's shoulder, his breath ghosting over Sherlock's cheek and neck. He's so close Sherlock can smell his cologne mixed with fresh sweat and just a hint of musk. “If you'd allow me, I have a treat for him.”

John slowly nods again, looking surprised yet pleased. Acri signals for one of the almost naked servants and, as he approaches, whispers something into his ear. The man listens before retreating towards the entrance.

While they wait, Sherlock takes his time to let his eyes roam the room. He has a good view from the raised platform he's sitting on. The orgy has progressed. There are entwined bodies everywhere; sighs and moans fill the suite, sometimes overlaid with shrill shrieks or loud groans of agony from the whipping room.

Meanwhile, Acri continues to stroke Sherlock's hair, his fingers gently petting his sweaty nape. John sits on the bed next to them, watching Sherlock intensely, who's still trying to process what had him so perturbed a few minutes ago. To distract himself, he allows his gaze to linger on specific scenes unfolding.

To their left, for example, a man leans onto the window sill, feeling the cool breeze on his face as another man kneels behind him and licks his arsehole with abandon, pushing his face deep between his cheeks. Sherlock envies him.

In the middle of the room, a slim boy is riding one of the guests who's lying outstretched on an upholstered chaise-lounge, his hands behind his head. They've gathered a small group of onlookers fisting their hard cocks. From time to time, one grabs the boy by his dark curls and shoves his cock into his willing mouth. The boy moans, sucks and swallows, much to the amusement of the man beneath him who praises him in Italian.

Sherlock licks his lips and wishes they could swap places.

“Look at that needy little comewhore.” Acri whispers into Sherlock's ear as if he can read his thoughts. “He's been at it the whole evening. No idea how many loads he's swallowed. But look at his swollen belly. Full of come.”

Sherlock can feel his heart beat faster. It's true, the boys abdomen looks visibly rounded. His own hand starts unconsciously stroking his stomacg. His impaled cock twitches, making him hiss with the sudden sharp pain.

But his fantasies are disturbed when suddenly the servant returns. He's carrying the large bowl they've seen next to the entrance. The bowl in which the used condoms could be disposed off.

As Acri presents it to them with a sly smile, Sherlock can see that it is almost full.

“How many do you think are there? Lets find out, shall we.”

“Not so fast.” John steps in. Sherlock stares at the bowl, unable to believe his luck. John wouldn't spoil the fun, would he?

“Put your face in it first.” John says.

Ah, clever John. Sherlock smiles as he lowers his head into the bowl. The condoms are slippery and smell of latex, musk and salty come. He presses his face into the mess, deeper and deeper, turning it this way and that until John pulls him back by his hair. Acri sits next to him, grinning, touching the small of Sherlock's back, his fingers ghosting over the scar tissue there.

“You seem to enjoy yourself way too much.” John says, but there's no malice in his voice.

Sherlock still smiles a dopey smile despite the congealing mass covering his features.

“Feed me, please.” He begs.

“No, you'll do it yourself.” John tells him.

Acri leans back on the mattress and watches as Sherlock empties one condom after the other on his tongue, swallowing it down.

After he's squeezed an exceptionally fat load out of a condom, Acri says to John: “I'm not sure he's properly savouring the taste. Keep it in your mouth a little longer. Play with it. That's it, on your tongue, between your teeth. Gargle with it. God, you don't know any shame, do you?”

Sherlock smiles through a mouthful of come, mixing the ejaculate while experiencing the different flavours of each sample, just swallowing when his whole mouth is full and the goo threatens to spill over.

John reaches out and tenderly touches his thumb to Sherlock's lower lip, stroking it, spreading the sticky, wet remnants. Sherlock bucks his hips and arches his spine and sound and plug move inside him in unison, setting his whole body alight with arousal. His pierced nipples peak, the rings gleaming in the candle light.

Acri watches the show, slowly palming his cock through the silk of his dressing gown, evidently mesmerised.

“Can I have a spoon, please?” Sherlock asks after a while because his fingers are getting too slippery to wring the last drops from the latex.

Acri snaps his fingers and a moment later a long tea spoon appears. Sherlock eagerly starts to use it to shovel come into his mouth, moaning as the thick beads hit his tongue.

More and more men have started to gather around and watch. One or two try to reach out for Sherlock, but John discourages them with a stern look.

“No touching. Just looking.”

Sherlock is kneeling in the middle of the bed in front of the bowl, with John and Acri at each side, undulating his hips. All the while, the sound moves inside his cock, and he's aware that percome is leaking from the chastity belt, running down his inner thighs. Yet he can't help it.

“Dio, guarda. Quale scoria!” [God, look at that. What a slag.] One of the spectators mumbles in awe. Others nod in agreement.

Come is dripping from Sherlock's mouth by now. He feels full but can't get enough. Each condom tastes different. The spoon adds a special note of lewdness to it, like he's having an exceptionally sordid dessert in a posh restaurant.

As he smears the residue over his neck and chest with his free hand while licking the spoon clean, he relishes the sticky wetness cooling his hot skin. It's so filthy that he can't suppress a moan, being coated in numerous anonymous comeshots from strangers.

Eventually, Sherlock gets to the bottom of the bowl. By now, he feels a little sick.

“Have you counted?” Acri asks.

“Fifty-seven.” Sherlock answers. He has trouble swallowing the last mouthful.

The onlookers nod, impressed.

“Now bring it up again.” That's John's voice. Sherlock turns around, a little shocked. John looks at him seriously. “Sven, I said, bring it up again.”

The group around them falls silent. Even Acri stills and sits back, eager to watch if Sherlock will obey.

He does. He puts two fingers in his mouth and pushes them down his throat, triggering his gag reflex. His whole body convulses, but then the pasty white mass he just swallowed over the last fifteen minutes comes up again, flooding his mouth before splashing into the bowl. He has to heave a few times before he's sure his stomach's empty. His cramping stomach muscles trigger the sound again and his cock throbs despite being caged.

Sherlock stares down into the dish, half filled with slimy greyish goo smelling a little sour.

“Very good. Now, as you so enjoy it, put your face in it again.” John says, his voice low, bearing no resistance.

Sherlock swallows, closes his eyes and dives into the come he's just brought up. Again; adding another layer of thick white beads coating his features.

“Up.” John tells him after a few moments. He comes up again, his face dripping with come, forming bubbles in front of his mouth as he breathes rapidly. In a reflex, he licks his lips, tasting semen mixed with gastric acid. It should be disgusting but it really turns him on; he undulates his hips in a pathetic little gesture, whining as the sound pushes in even deeper.

“Now drink it up again.”

Sherlock doesn't want to, he really doesn't, but what can he do? He is a comedump after all, so this is what he's here for. He swallows and swallows until he gags and tries to lower the bowl to catch his breath, but John's firm hands hold it in place and force him to continue.

They repeat this three times. The come tastes more and more like vomit each time Sherlock brings it up and drowns it again. At the third attempt, Sherlock doesn't even need to put his fingers down his throat. The taste is enough to turn his stomach and expel the come again right away. People chuckle.

John makes him swallow it all again for a fourth time. By now, tears are running down his cheeks while snot drips from his nose, adding to the mess on his face.

After the bowl is empty once again, Sherlock really has to fight to keep the slime down. He presses a hand to his mouth and shuts his eyes. 'Please,' he thinks, 'not again.'

And finally, John seems to have mercy with him.

“Very good, Sven.” He says, and Sherlock relaxes and sighs a little.

But then Acri snaps his fingers again. Sherlock opens his eyes and sees the boy who's been riding the other man and swallowing come all evening walk up to them. As he kneels onto the bed as well, Acri strokes and squeezes his rounded belly a bit before whispering something in his ear. The boy grins, nods and scoots over to Sherlock.

He towers over him, still smiling.

“Face up.” Acri says, exchanging a look with John to make sure this is all right before lifting Sherlock's chin up with two finger. When Sherlock tries to turn his face away, John sternly says: “Do as you are told.”

Reluctantly, Sherlock raises his head as the boy bends a little forward.

“Open your mouth.” John whispers, his voice rough with arousal.

Feeling more than a little sick, Sherlock does as he's told.

The boy slowly puts a finger into his mouth and pushes deep. He gags once, twice before, suddenly, a splash of thick white vomit hits Sherlock's face and fills his open mouth. Instinctively, he swallows. The boy continues choking, bringing up more. Another load splashes onto Sherlock's face with surprising vigour, followed by another, and another. He gulps down what lands in his mouth quickly, desperately trying to suppress retching himself, for he's sure they'll force him to eat it all up again. He silently wishes that the boy did have nothing else this evening but semen.

It's coming in huge waves now, and Sherlock is unable to ingest it all. It splashes all over his face, drips from his mouth, runs down his throat and chest and pools between his thighs. Eventually, the boy just spits remnants of frothy saliva into his mouth and on his face. 

A hand reaches down, spreading the slimy substance on his body, and Sherlock arches into the touch before reaching out and pulling the boy in.

They rub against each other, kissing and licking their skin, open-mouthed and greedy, and both moan, swapping bodily fluids, lost in the feeling, the taste, joined by enjoying the absolute lewdness of their dirty actions.

The boy leans in and sucks on Sherlock's tongue, who arches up into the motion, opening wide, taking everything that's on offer. His cock and balls are burning by now and he feels he might come despite the device locking him in.

When the boy finally shuffles back, empty and exhausted, Sherlock can't stop to smear his sick all over his skin, massage it in. People tell him he's a filthy whore, a comeslut, a comedump, and he nods and pants. He is. He has debased himself to a degree unfathomable to him before tonight.

Afterwards, it's just white noise and static crackle as Sherlock collapses onto the bed.

Sherlock has no memory how they got home. He's dimly aware of being wrapped in a blanket and getting shoved into a car. He even might remember a shower back at the pensione, but he's not sure. John also must have removed the chastity belt with sound and plug, for when Sherlock wakes the next morning, he's clean and naked.

“You won't believe what happened.” John shakes him awake, waving a newspaper in his hand.


	13. Florence 6

“Fuck!”

Sherlock is woken from his deep sleep by John heartily uttering above expletive. In regard of last night, he's not sure where his dream ends and reality sets in. But fucking is right now the last thing on his mind. He still feels queasy and bone-tired.

But as he's slowly coming round, Sherlock decides to make an effort and open his eyes. John is sitting next to him in bed, the _Corriere della Sera_ spread out in front of his naked chest.

“Whsit?” Sherlock slurs, his voice soft with sleep.

“You tell me. Nothing good, that's all I can guess. _'Omicidio'_ , does that mean murder?”

Sherlock's brain kicks into gear. “Who's been murdered?” He sits up as well, winces a little at the abrupt movement and snatches the paper from John.

“It's front page news.” John tells him.

There's a picture of their host from last night, all properly dressed in tie and suit jacket, shaking hands with some politician, looking confident and successful. Below is a picture of the villa they'd been partying last night.

Sherlock starts to read the article, his eyes suddenly bright and focused, rapidly scanning the page from left to right.

“It says art dealer Mario Acri has been found dead in the early hours of the morning in his house where he celebrated some festivity last night. The police treats it as a suspicious death. Apparently, it seems that he's been strangled.”

“Shit! What the fuck... But could it have been, you know, self-inflicted? I don't mean suicide, but... some sort of sex game gone wrong?” John sounds weary.

“The article also states that he was castrated. Prior to being strangled.”

John instinctively cups his groin. “Oh! Still... he was into some pretty hardcore stuff.”

“His severed cock was then stuffed into his mouth, apparently. I doubt he was the kind of person who wanted to suck his own cock like this.” Sherlock folds the paper and worries his lower lip between thumb and forefinger. John stares out of the window, drumming his fingers on the mattress.

“This is bad, John.” Sherlock eventually states

“I agree. He didn't deserve to die like this.”

“I'm not talking about him, I'm talking about us.” Sherlock's voice is cold, devoid of any compassion.

John frowns. “How so?”

“Here, the police asks for anyone attending last night's party to come forward. I doubt our presence went unnoticed.” Sherlock arches an eyebrow. “People will mention us. And we've been to his private quarters as well. Surely we left… evidence. So, obviously we should come forward. Only, this will put us on their files.”

“You said our papers were in order.”

“They are. But getting photographed and fingerprinted, with DNA samples taken... We'll show up in some database with our true identities, that’s for sure. And then it’s just a question of time when, not if, this affair will reach Mycroft. If he decides to look into it, I doubt we'll be able to hide for much longer.”

“Then we probably shouldn't make a statement.”

“They'll find us anyway. We only seem more suspicious if we don't help them with their inquiries, voluntarily.”

“So we are being trapped between a rock and a hard place?” John shakes his head.

Sherlock sighs and frowns. “I can't deal with that without coffee.” He gets up and stalks into the shower.

Half an hour later, they are sitting in a cafe, nursing an espresso each and some cream filled cannoli. Sherlock crumbles his pastry absent-mindedly, licking his fingers between sips of strong coffee.

“So, any ideas?” John asks eventually.

Sherlock puts down his small cup. “I'm sure we left DNA behind.” John grins and nods. “Not funny, John.”

“Will there be any links to our real identities?”

“Who knows? The more dodgy we look, the deeper the police will dig. So we better volunteer. Or solve the murder for them, quickly, so they won't have to investigate us.”

John bites into his pastry. “Do you have any idea what might have happened?”

“No. Not enough data.” Sherlock shakes his head.

“That sub he... mutilated?” John avoids Sherlock's gaze and looks over the Piazza instead, watching the passers-by get on with their mundane lives, unperturbed by murder and genius brothers out for revenge.

“Hmmm. I think he was devoted to Acri, despite everything. The way he looked at me... I can’t picture him do something like this. Accidental asphyxiation, maybe. But not castration. One of the other three boys is much more likely. They were jealous. But I'd need a look at the evidence to be sure.”

“Don't you dare. Remember, you are not Sherlock Holmes anymore.” John shakes his head in disapproval.

Sherlock sighs and orders a second cup of coffee.

\----------

The Questura is very busy when they enter mid-morning. A young policeman tells them to wait, and John wanders over to a water-cooler while Sherlock sits down on a hard bench and observes the comings and goings. After fifteen minutes, they are eventually shown into a stuffy interview room, smelling of sweat, cheap aftershave and cigarettes. Sherlock inhales deeply while John coughs in indignation.

“Would you like a cigarette, Signor Sigerson?” A tall blond woman asks, getting up and offering her hand. “I'm Ispettrice Mondigliani.” She introduces herself. She’s heavy set, with a practical haircut and thick glasses. Yet her eyes are sharp. She’s instantly noticed that Sherlock smokes.

“I'm trying to quit.” Sherlock answers in fluent Italian. As John looks between the two of them, frowning, he continues in English: “Could we do the interview in a language my parter understands?”

The inspector doesn't bat an eyelid. “Of course.” She retorts with only the smallest hint of an accent. “Or we could get you an interpreter.”

“That won't be necessary.” Sherlock smiles winningly. Yet the Inspector seems unimpressed by his charms.

They all settle at the sticky metal table screwed to the floor, their chairs scraping loudly over the concrete floor. When seated, Inspector Mondigliani starts a tape recorder and asks them to give their names and addresses.

“Ormond Sacker and Sven Sigerson, currently residing at the Pensione Santa Anna.”

“You are from England, Mr Sacker?”

“Yes. But I've lived in Lisbon for some time.”

“And you are from...?”

“Stavanger.”

“And your occupations?”

“We are currently travelling.” Sherlock states.

“So you have… what’s the word… private means?”

“I prefer the term escapists.” Sherlock's smile turns icy. John subtly nudges him under the table.

“Escapists.” The Inspector says dryly, scribbling something on her notepad. “You were at Signor Acri's … party last night?” The pause is eloquent.

“Yes.” John takes over.

“Were you invited?”

“Yes, by a mutual friend.”

The Inspector makes another note.

“How long did you stay?”

“A few hours. We left... a little after midnight?” Sherlock nods in confirmation, despite being unable to remember either the time or how they reached their hotel.

“Did you see anything unusual?”

Sherlock and John freeze momentarily. How on earth are they to answer this question?

“What do you deem unusual?” John asks carefully.

“Was Acri fighting with someone? Did he seem sad, or angry? Did anyone behave suspiciously?” The Inspector is browsing through her notes, tapping her pen against the table-top.

“We couldn't say. We never met Signor Acri before last night.” Sherlock explains.

“And yet you have a mutual friend and are invited to his party.” It’s not a question. Mondigliani fixes him with a cold stare. Sherlock stares back, his face blank. “Anyway, any quarrels you witnessed?”

“You are aware what kind of … party that was?” John asks, trying for a neutral tone.

“What do you mean, Mr Sacker?” The inspector turns in John’s direction. Her eyes seem to bore into him, making him squirm a little in his seat. She reminds him of his old head-mistress – not in a pleasant way.

“Well... it was... you know...” John is stammering but he can’t help it.

“It was an orgy, basically.” Sherlock interrupts. “Everyone was fucking. Including us. We really had no time to observe anything. I'm not even sure who's cock I sucked.” He smiles again but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Are we finished here?”

The Inspector looks not the slightest bit taken aback by Sherlock's frankness. “I think we should talk to you separately.” She states before leaving the room.

“What on earth...” John begins, getting up and raking his hands through his hair. Sherlock quietens him with a cough and a minute shake of his head. There are surely cameras and microphones in the interview room, recording their reactions. John sits back down again. They both wait in silence.

A few minutes later, the Ispettrice returns. “Mr Sigerson, would you follow me?”

Sherlock is led down a narrow corridor and into a windowless room. Mondigliani gestures towards another plastic chair in front of another scratched metal table before leaving him. Sherlock stares at the clock on the wall, ticking away. Ten minutes later, finally another plain-cloth policeman enters.

He's tall, taller than Sherlock, bald, and strongly built, with broad shoulders and a thick neck bulging over the collar of his beige shirt. He carries a plastic container that seems to hold a fingerprinting kit as well as swaps for collecting DNA samples. Sherlock frowns.

“Mr Sigerson, I’m Commissario Rossi. I’m here for your checks and bookings.” He sets the box down onto the table and stares disparagingly down at Sherlock form heavy-lidded eyes.

Sherlock instinctively pushes his hands into his trouser pockets like an obstinate teenager.

“Do you understand?” The Commissario asks. His accent is much more pronounced than Mondigliani’s. Sherlock looks once again up at the clock. Thirteen minutes past one. He nods.

The policeman doesn’t move, just licks his fleshy lips. “Unless…”

“Unless what?” Sherlock gazes right back up at him. His eyes are a very light blue, almost translucent. They remind him of the dead stare of a shark.

“There might be other options. If you prefer not to go on record.”

“Other options?” Sherlock parrots. He knows he sounds weak and hollow, just repeating the phrases thrown at him but it helps biding his time.

“You told my colleague what you did at Acri’s party. To be honest, I don’t give a fuck if one poof killed the other. Acri was a dirty faggot as far as I’m concerned, and the world is better off without his lot. But as you don’t mind to engage in certain activities, maybe offering those to me could distract me from performing my duty.” The man grins as he winks and rubs his groin in full view of Sherlock.

Sherlock briefly wonders how one could live with such level of internalised homophobia that one could only pursue one’s own desires by rape, can’t wrap his brain around it and abandons the thought in favour of dealing with the situation at hand.

Having his fingerprints and DNA taken would certainly alert Mycroft. He’s sure nothing the man opposite could do to him would be worse than what he’s to expect from his brother. Therefore, the only logical answer to the question put to him is to agree.

He nods. “How do you want me?” He smiles and lets his legs fall open.

The policeman rounds the table between them and comes to stand in front of Sherlock. Up close, he still smells of the pastrami panini he had for lunch, beer, and sweat. There are dark patches forming under his arms.

“Mr Sigerson, I have to search you. Undress.” He barks.

Sherlock decides to give him a bit of a show.

“Why?” He asks, trying to smile seductively.

“Because.” The man crosses his arms in front of his chest and positions himself between Sherlock and the door. His eyes are small slits in his reddened face. His breathing is speeding up. So he likes a bit of resistance.

Sherlock sighs. Better not draw it out any longer. He removes his jacket, unbuttons his shirt and sheds his trousers, folding his clothes to put them neatly onto the chair.

Naked except for his pants, he stands in the middle of the room and awaits further instructions.

The Commissario circles him slowly, taking in his nipple piercings, his slim yet wiry body, his rounded arse. Standing behind Sherlock, he cups his buttocks and kneads them a little, pushing his thumbs beneath the elastic.

“Take everything off.” He whispers in Sherlock’s ear, his breath ghosting hot over Sherlock’s skin.

“I doubt this is within your authority. Who do you think you are?” Sherlock teases.

“I'm the man who will get very angry if you don't take your clothes off. Now!”

The atmosphere in the room is charged. Sherlock instinctively understands that he has to be careful, walking the slim line between tempting and offensive.

When he's totally naked, he stands defiantly in front of the officer, purposefully not covering himself. Bold hands start to skim over his body, running down his arms, his chest, pausing at his silver nipple rings, pinching them.

“Okay, listen. There are two options for you here. First, you can make me and some others very happy, and then we might let you go and give you and your friend a 24 hour headstart. Or, you continue to be difficult, and I'll see to it that an Interpol warrant asking for two men fitting your and Mr Sacker's description gets processed quickly. What do you think about that?”

Sherlock swallows, standing rigid in the middle of the room while blunt hands touch his body. He has no illusions who's behind that warrant. Neither has he any doubt what will await him should his brother get him extradited. It'll surely be worse than letting this policeman have his way with him. He has no time right now to wonder how Mycroft conceived the idea to issue such a warrant. This will have to wait for later.

“I seriously advise you not to take too long to make your mind up. I'm not a very patient man.” Rossi's voice brings Sherlock back to reality.

He knows there are no guarantees, that the Commissario could easily lie to him, yet he feels he's quickly running out of options. He tries to bargain none the less.

“Why would you do that? Why should I trust you?” He sounds way more confident than he feels right now, almost snobbish.

“Because I really don't care if you were involved in killing that pervert. Or in whatever else. I'm neither interested in some foreign scam. But I have to run the holding cells here and believe me, it's advisable to scratch the right backs. And profitable. At least for me. So...”

Sherlock still holds his head high as he gives a minute nod, his posture relenting a little bit. He can do this. Yet he swallows again – hard - when calloused fingers probe at his groin, pulling back his foreskin, rolling his balls. The man isn't even wearing gloves.

“Turn around. Bend over.”

Sherlock does almost on autopilot, lowering his torso onto the dirty table. He can read the labels on the equipment inside the plastic box and concentrates on the brand names, stowing them neatly away in his mind palace. 

He’s grateful when he hears the snap of latex gloves.

Blunt fingers spread his cheeks. Despite knowing what’s coming for him, it’s a shock as a sheathed finger rubs against his hole. Sherlock tries to jerk up and away but a firm hand presses to the middle of his spine and pins him down.

“Don't.”

Sherlock goes very, very still.

He closes his eyes as a cool drop of spit hits his tight pucker. Still, he hisses when the probing finger breaches him, biting down on his naked forearm as the digit slides deeper and deeper inside him. When a second finger is added, he holds his breath, wishing for it to just be over soon.

“Do you like it?” The policeman sounds aroused as he watches his fingers vanishing inside Sherlock’s body. Or is it Sherlock’s obvious discomfort that gets him off? “Tell me you like it.”

“I like it.” Sherlock whispers.

“Say it so I can believe you.” The fingers inside him scissor. It hurts.

“I like it.” Sherlock tries to make his moan sound lascivious, but it comes out strained.

“You’ll like what comes next even more, cunt.”

The sound of a zipper opening makes Sherlock’s insides tighten.

“Please...,” he huffs out, slightly panicking, betraying his distress.

“Shut up.”

“Please... use a condom.”

A fist hits him just above his left kidney and all air is knocked out of him.

“Of course I will, with a whore like you. Who knows who else put his dick inside you? Many, I guess.” Sherlock can hear a blister pack being torn open. At least a condom will provide minimal lubrication aside from protection.

When Rossi enters him, Sherlock buries his head in his arms and just waits for it to be over. The Commissario is big. And he doesn’t go slow.

“You horny slut.” The policeman grunts, grabbing Sherlock’s hips to set a menacing rhythm. “You like it, taking it up the arse, don't you. Don't you?” A strong hand comes down, smacking his upper thigh.

“Yes.” Sherlock’s whispers. He'll do anything to get this over with as soon as possible. If he has to flatter and cajole, he will.

“I can't hear you.” Rossi speeds up further. Sherlock can feel how turned on the man is by his submission, his fat cock pounding ruthlessly into him, fucking him sore.

“Yes. I need it. I need you to fuck me. Hard.” Sherlock blurts out, trying to sound seductive despite the pain. “You feel so good inside my mancunt. Please, take me. Deeper.”

It doesn't take long afterwards. The man is panting and gasping behind Sherlock, who starts to moan in order to get him off more quickly. He even clenches and pushes back, begging “Yes, yes… oh my god, please…”

“You fucking, filthy pussy. Moaning like a tart. You gag for it, don’t you ?”

“Yes.” Sherlock chants. “I love it. Take me. Fuck me. Break me.”

Suddenly, he can feel the cock inside him pulse, filling the condom.

When Rossi pulls out with a grunt afterwards, Sherlock stays crouched over the desk. He's not sure if his legs would support him right now if he gets up. His whole body hurts.

“Spread your cheeks. Show me your hole.” Sherlock had hoped it would be over but apparently, the Commissario has other ideas. So he does as he’s told and pulls his cheeks apart to expose his sore anus.

“Say thank you.”

“Thank you. “Sherlock croaks.

A hand is kneading his left arsecheek as the policeman writes something onto the marred skin just above Sherlock’s sacrum: “Fuckhole,” Sherlock registers.

“Wait here, princess. There are a few of my friends here in custody who might appreciate your tight arse. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No.” Sherlock answers. It’s not clear if in protest or in agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I left the fandom and won't continue this story. Apologies but I just can't...


End file.
